


Castles

by pebblysand



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Auror Harry Potter, Canon Compliant, Canonical Character Death, Coming of Age, F/M, Grief/Mourning, Harry Potter Epilogue Compliant, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Post-Battle of Hogwarts, Post-Hogwarts, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Post-War, Romance, Shippy Gen, Slow Burn, The Golden Trio, Trauma
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-16
Updated: 2021-02-16
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:01:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 58,849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26500321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pebblysand/pseuds/pebblysand
Summary: "To him, the spring of '98 is about sex and funerals."A canon-compliant, post-war tale.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley, Hermione Granger & Harry Potter & Ron Weasley, Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 64
Kudos: 106





	1. out of sand (baby girl)

**Author's Note:**

> I've basically had this story (a version of it, at least) in my head since 2007. Yet, although I've been writing fanfiction for years, I've always been a bit scared (okay, I'm terrified) of the HP fandom because God, it's so huge. This being said, at this point, I just need to get this thing out of my head and move on with my life, so here it is. The fic title and the chapters titles are loosely based on a song by Eminem called 'Castle'. 
> 
> As always, comments are more than welcome :).

** Castles **

.

_ i. out of sand (baby girl) _

.

.

.

May, that year, is a blur. A blur of funerals and tears at The Burrow, of thoughts of Fred and firewhiskey. It burns Harry's throat when it courses down his body, sits on his stomach as it lands there like a cushion, creates a nice, comforting buzz in his head. It makes the nightmares worse, though, and in the night, he lies awake and watches the ceiling move, the room spinning around him like in the eye of a tornado. 

In ‘98, they don’t get the luxury of hindsight. Hermione doesn’t get to know that she _will_ get her parents back, some day; Ron doesn’t yet understand that the pain of losing Fred will abate, eventually, but will always remain and simmer under the surface, ready to boil back up at the first whiff of Spring. The way that Harry will probably have to explain all of this to his children, one day, that they’ll ask him questions about the war that he’ll have to answer, ten or fifteen years from now, doesn’t even occur to him. May, that year, is a blur that starts with the battle and ends with it. The world around them is engulfed into a whirlwind of emotions, a tumultuous mixture of frenzy and grief, sometimes devoid of any sort of boundaries and they just plough on, day after day, while they try to get some sleep with every night that passes.

On the day that follows the battle, the picture of Harry that the Daily Prophet uses to fill its front page is the same as the one they had for the Undesirable No 1 posters. If there isn’t enough time for anything, there clearly isn’t time for new headshots. Four words make the headline: _The Boy Who Lived._ More copies are sold than ever before in the history of the paper (they do a reprint in the afternoon, and one in the evening), and it’s as though the entire wizarding community wants a physical piece of this moment in their lives (a physical piece of him). It doesn’t matter that most of what’s in print that day is pure conjecture, or that Harry has been locked away in Gryffindor Tower for over twelve hours, unavailable for interviews. People are happy. The reckless euphoria is real, even for those who’ve lost friends or family members in the battle. No one seems to know what to think, both wanting and not wanting to believe that this all happened, that they made it through, that they _lived_ , for better or for worse.

These days, Harry is asked about _everything_. From attending funerals to the closure of Azkaban, to what he wants to see from the remembrance ceremony. Most of the time, he doesn’t know what to say. It’s not that he doesn’t want to answer, per se, it’s that he’s _tired,_ exhausted, and he can’t even really _think._ By the end of the month, his voice sounds hoarse and either over or underused; he finds it hard to _explain_ , a lifetime of memories whispered dead, hard to make the decisions they expect him to make.

Sometimes, Ron and Hermione answer for him. The frenzy absorbs them both, too; Harry makes sure of that. He makes sure that everyone _-_ bloody _everyone_ – knows that he would never have gotten here if it weren’t for them. As far as he’s concerned, they deserve the praise more than he does. They had a choice in the matter of risking their lives and still, they _chose_ this. They could have eloped out of the country but they _stayed,_ became the real heroes of the wizarding world.

Sometimes, Ginny answers, too. When she does, she searches for Harry’s eyes as she speaks and he anchors his look onto hers, studies the features of her face and gives her a weak smile, her words like encased behind a bubblehead charm.

Gradually, a wall of protection builds itself around him, shields him from the things that the others don’t want him to see. From Hermione’s hand in his when they put Lupin to the ground to Percy’s angry shouts when he ensures the protective spells are still in place around The Burrow, every morning at the crack of dawn. He protects them not from Voldemort’s wrath, anymore, but from crowds and crowds of hungry reporters. ‘We need _space!_ ’ he bellows from behind the gate. Kingsley’s silencing charms seem to hold so Harry’s honestly not sure anybody on the other side can hear him. ‘Unbelievable,’ Percy says, almost to himself, walking back into the house, and without meaning to, makes everyone secretly smile.

It’s all they have, for now, secret smiles, discreet utterings at the corners of their mouths. After the euphoria of the first couple of days, comes the grief. From his sadly extensive experience with it _,_ Harry knows that it will get better, with time, but never truly go away. Laughter, _genuine_ laughter, that spring, is rare. George sticks to his room. So, do a lot of them. Mrs Weasley appears to channel her pain into household chores, whooshes away anyone who tries to give her a hand. She puts food on the table that they politely push about their plates. Even Ron, strangely enough, seems to have lost at least part of his appetite.

Kingsley is the first visitor to the house, just a couple of days after they leave Hogwarts. It’s an intrusion into The Burrow’s bubble, but not an unwelcome one. Mrs Weasley can’t actually believe they have the _Minister for Magic_ around the table. She fusses about and forces Ginny to put on a dress; it generally gives them all something to do. Tea’s served after lunch and: ‘I guess I’ll leave you to it,’ Molly says before reluctantly departing the room. Harry, Hermione and Ron are lined up on the couch, facing Kingsley on the other side of the coffee table. It’s a rematch of Scrimgeour’s visit, except the vibe is undoubtedly different.

‘I promise we won’t be long, Molly,’ Kingsley tells her, kind, and gives her a few seconds to leave. He glances back up at the three young wizards in front of him. ‘How are you three?’ he asks. Before any of them can answer, though, he adds a caveat. ‘And I mean, _really_ -’

Harry feels the Minister’s gaze upon him, frankly isn’t sure what to say. _How am I, really?_

‘We’re fine,’ Ron settles, fills the silence that the other two seem to have decided to let stew. He shrugs. ‘All good.’

A moment passes. Kingsley looks at the three of them, gaze trailing over their tired faces, one after the other, and laughs. Something exhausted and drained but still, it feels genuine and, Harry muses later, it’s one of those rare instances of genuine laughter, that spring. Hermione looks at Kingsley and shakes her head to herself, chuckles a bit too. Harry and Ron join in. ‘Stupid question,’ Kingsley acknowledges with a smile when their laughter dies down, nodding to himself. ‘Sorry.’

They talk shop for a bit. Kingsley tells them about his new role, about the ongoing efforts to catch Death Eaters on the loose. ‘In some circles, there’s still a price on your head, Harry,’ he indicates in a tone that Harry knows is meant as a warning, one that he promptly chooses to ignore.

The recurring issue, these days, is that in the afternoons, he’s taken up to visiting Devon. He doesn’t want to Apparate too far, doesn’t want to give the Prophet another excuse to write about him ( _Potter Apparates Without A Licence_ ), but at this point, he’s been to Exeter, Branscombe Beach, the Seaton Wetlands. It’s been beautiful and glorious, full of coastlines and forest hikes; he’s even hired a bike, once or twice. On certain walks, there’s a silence around him that almost feels dreamlike, seeing places he’d only ever heard of in Muggle school, when the Dursleys would go on holidays and leave him behind to rot at Mrs Figg’s.

The others in the house don’t like it, although to varying degrees. Ron and Hermione know better than to interfere. Ginny shrugs with a frown but a couple of times, she rolls her eyes and comes with him. When Mrs Weasley cautions: ‘Oh, Harry, dear, I don’t think it’s wise,’ he reassures: ‘I’ll take the Cloak.’ He’s not _lying_ , in the strictest sense of the word, he does _take_ the Cloak, just never wears it. There is something about standing there unrecognised in the middle of Muggle towns, watching Muggles be Muggles while his skin prickles under the sun that just feels like it’s taken out of somebody else’s life. A Voldemort-less life. The spring of 1998 is oddly warm and cheerful in that sense (even the Muggles seem to have felt the Dementors’ burden lift), and when Harry buys ice cream cones with the pound notes stuffed in his pockets, they almost taste different, sweeter, like small doses of freedom have been gently infused into them. Since he died in that forest, everything that happens from now on is a bonus, a reprieve won upon fate, and he might as well enjoy it. Sometimes, as much as he loves the others, the attention and _care_ of The Burrow can feel suffocating. 

Bill, Kingsley tells them, has lost his job at the bank and now works directly for the Minister’s office. This is due to the fact that, amongst other things, he helped the three of them cash out of Gringotts and into Muggle banks, the day after the battle. ‘You’ll thank me later, trust me,’ he simply told them, carrying a hefty bunch of papers under his arm, his eyes tired and red. They complied, mostly because it seemed to give him a sense of purpose, prevent his gaze from drifting again and again towards Fred’s body.

Sure enough, Kingsley now has the whiffs of a goblin uprising on his hands.

‘You kids really weren’t trying to make my life easy, were you?’ he jokes. Hermione looks apologetic, Harry honestly could not care less (he never particularly liked the goblins, to tell the truth) and Ron, frankly, seems amused.

‘Merlin, with everything, I almost forgot we broke into Gringotts and escaped on a dragon,’ he says, like that’s a completely normal thing to have done. ‘Story to tell the kids one day, Hermione,’ he quips. She shoots him a glare.

They’re still the same, the both of them. Bickering constantly (sometimes, Harry can’t help but roll his eyes), but they seem to have reached an adult understanding that they love each other, somehow. It leaves Harry both content and sad, like on top of everything else, he also has to grieve the end of their awkward teenage years. He realises that he hasn’t really cared to think about what his own future holds for a long time before this. Time, the mere concept of it, feels almost uncomfortable in his hands.

One morning, he devises a plan to keep himself busy. Makes a list in his head of the things that he would like to do. Simple things, like play Quidditch in the garden or kiss every inch of Ginny’s skin. Sometimes, he finds himself erring on the side harmless mischief, the kind of thing that he feels his teenage self would have done if it hadn’t been plagued with the prospect of a war. He imagines doing the stuff that would truly have driven Aunt Petunia up the wall or made Uncle Vernon throw things at his face. With all the time on his hands and close to no consequences attached, Harry just figures out what he wants to spend his hours on, on a day to day basis, and just rolls with it.

To be fully honest, for reasons that he can’t quite explain, most of the things he wants to do, most of the rules he wants to break, are Muggle ones. This helps, because Hermione’s really the only person in the house who understands what he’s doing and gets to express any sort of true discontent. One afternoon, she glares daggers at him as he walks in, returning from a quaint little Devon village by the coast, and serves himself a cup of tea. Percy, Ginny and Ron are around the table, discussing George. ‘Harry, come here,’ Hermione says as she rises to her feet, the look on her face both outraged and disbelieving. Ron shrugs when Harry looks at him for help.

The moment he stands next to her, Hermione takes a sniff at his jumper and immediately goes into a rant. Harry braces for it and fakes contrition, hears a jumble of words like: ‘I can’t believe it,’ and ‘after everything,’ and ‘cancer,’ and ‘it smells _disgusting!’_ She wrestles the pack of cigarettes out of the pocket of his jeans and vanishes it before he can voice any objections while Ginny and Percy start laughing and Ron interjects: ‘What’s _cancer?_ ’

The next day, it’s a bit of a joke, by this point, but he owls Luna and asks her to draw a Hungarian Horntail for him. He doesn’t specify the purpose but he feels like she knows anyway (she’s both smart _and_ talented, Luna) and she owls him back that same afternoon with a gorgeous black and white animal drawn over a blank sheet of paper that seems to have been stolen from her father’s printing press. The texture is light and thin between Harry’s fingers. The details of the drawing are intricate and elegant, the spikes on the dragon’s back so life-like that Harry almost feels like he can touch them. Knowing that he’d never hear the end of it if the press got wind of a Diagon Alley visit, he decides it’s easier to cope with the physical pain than the emotional one (would Hermione claim that there is a pattern, here?) and takes the drawing to a Muggle tattoo parlour in Exeter. He tells the artist that the scars on his chest are the result of the car accident that also killed his parents and swears rather loudly as the needle pierces into the skin at his right side, just above the hem of his trousers. The dragon stretches up to the bottom of his ribcage and Ginny bursts out a laugh when she sees it, whispers something about it being ‘very macho indeed,’ and asks: ‘Don’t Muggles ask you to be eighteen for that?’

Harry shrugs, guesses that she is correct but the guy didn’t even think of asking for his ID in the shop. It seems that he must just look older.

When Kingsley visits The Burrow that time in early May, he also offers them jobs. Ron, Hermione and Harry, three spots with the Aurors, starting training in September. It’s a political move, sure (wouldn’t it look good for the Ministry to have _Harry-Potter-and-his-friends_ join their ranks?), but it doesn’t feel like one. It’s more of a proposition, a recognition of sorts. In response, Hermione chokes on her tea ( _Oh Kingsley, I don’t know what to say, we haven’t even taken our N.E.W.T.s!_ ), Ron swears excitedly under his breath and Harry, as usual these days, says nothing.

‘I think I want to finish my education,’ Hermione settles. The look on Kingsley’s face is impressed but not surprised.

‘I wouldn’t expect any less of you,’ he tells her and she beams, looking expectantly at the other two.

‘I don’t know, mate, what do you reckon?’ Ron quickly follows, throwing a glance at Harry. ‘Would be pretty sick, no?’ he says but looks sheepish under Hermione’s quick glare. She eyes Harry as though hopeful that he will be the voice of reason.

‘Harry?’

And for a while, Harry is silent, picks at the callouses at the base of his fingers. ‘I think –’ he starts. ‘I think I need to think.’

Kingsley leaves empty-handed, that afternoon, and over the next few weeks, Hermione begins what the rest of them jokingly refer to as the “Hogwarts Campaign.” A couple of days after the Minister’s visit, Ron makes his decision and owls in to accept the offer. For a long while, however, Harry remains unsure and Hermione is convinced that it might not be too late to change both of their minds.

‘What else would you like to do, though? Play Quidditch?’ Ginny asks him, one afternoon. He lies on the grass as her broom intermittently races from one end of the garden to the other (he’s tasked with staying put and timing her with his watch). Harry shrugs when she looks at him (as he so often does, these days), thinks that _yes_ , he’d like that, just before it also occurs to him that it would attract even more attention to himself. That, obviously, wouldn’t be ideal.

A moment passes during which his gaze catches hers and: ‘Is that what _you_ want to do?’ he asks. The moment he does, though, he knows it was a dumb thing to say. She bursts out a laugh and shakes her head at him. There is a light in her eyes, however, one that he hasn’t seen in a while (is that amusement? Excitement? Ambition?). Whatever it is, it brings a smile to his face, too.

‘You’d think that was pretty obvious, Potter,’ she observes, lands and sits down facing him, starts to pull at bits of grass from the ground. ‘Did you not notice I’ve been training about ten hours a day?’

And come to think of it, _yes,_ he did notice that. He’s noticed how, over the past few weeks, the muscles of her calves have grown more toned than they ever were, how her hands effortlessly wrap around the Quaffle, how her petite body appears even leaner to him. He closes his eyes, imagines that the moment he got close, she’d fit into his arms effortlessly, like she was made to rest there and his sole purpose on this Earth was to hold her. She’s everything he’s ever wanted, Ginny, and every time he sees her, he can’t think of anything else.

Over the next few weeks, Hermione tries a number of persuasion techniques with Ron and he to convince them to go back to Hogwarts. She uses big words like ‘career’ and ‘education,’ and sometimes lures Ron into extensive snogging sessions that he’ll be sure to miss once September comes. At one point, she even enlists McGonagall into giving Harry a stern look that makes him stare down at his feet. ‘Potter, I shall think you will consider this decision very carefully,’ she tells him and Harry’s suddenly reminded of the howl that escaped her mouth when she thought he was dead. McGonagall shows none of that, of course, but even tries to dangle the prospect of a Quidditch Captain badge in front of him. ‘Who will lead my team if you don’t come back?’ she asks.

Harry shrugs and recognises the argument to be flawed. ‘Ginny?’

To be honest, for all the hard work that she’s put in, he thinks she should get it _even_ _if_ he did decide to come back to Hogwarts.

In early May, they also find out about the Commission. It’s established a mere few days after the battle – the key, the new and improved Ministry seems to think, is to start when the events of the war are still fresh in people’s minds. A number of Order members are discussing it around the dinner table at The Burrow, casual bits of conversation that Harry, Hermione and Ron are prompt to pick up on. ‘Not here, Arthur,’ Mrs Weasley warns but by the time she does, it’s already too late.

‘What Commission?’ Hermione asks.

The Ministry, the Order explains, has set out to investigate their own collaboration with Voldemort’s regime. A bold move on Kingsley’s part, Harry must admit, although having seen Dumbledore’s memories of Barty Crouch Junior’s trial, he can’t help but wonder if legal hearings are the best way to go about this. ‘It won’t be a witch-hunt,’ the Minister assures them, before Ron can even open his mouth to protest, as if reading Harry’s mind. ‘I promise you that. But we also need to look into it, don’t we? Learn from our mistakes where we can and yes, certain people will probably have to serve time. We’ve decided the Commission will be made up of half elected officials from the Wizengamot and half witches and wizards picked at random from the lists we have. The Muggles do it like that, select members of the public in their trials; it seems to work for them. You all probably will have to testify.’

Kingsley’s voice is matter-of-fact, like the most obvious thing he could have ever said. Yet, Harry freezes. The glass of water in his hand stays suspended in mid-air, he glances at Hermione, then Ron. None of them have really talked about what happened last year to anyone outside of their own little bubble. Mr Weasley asked a few questions, mostly prompted by his wife. ‘Where were you?’ (‘Camping in your tent,’ said Ron) and ‘What were you doing?’

The answer to that became clear just a few days after the battle, when the Ministry’s press release explained everything (without, really, explaining _anything)._ Harry came down to breakfast that day and overheard Ron talking to his parents over coffee and juice. ‘I would have preferred to find this out from you three rather than learning about in the papers, Ron,’ he heard Mr Weasley say, a tone of slight reproach in his voice.

‘It’s kind of hard to chat about over tea and biscuits,’ Ron pointed out in return. ‘And, with Fred -’

There was silence in the room until Harry heard Mrs Weasley’s voice crack and although he couldn’t see them, he was sure she was hugging Ron. ‘Oh, my poor boy, I’m sorry,’ she said.

Fred’s funeral is something that Harry never wants to remember or think about ever again. In his mind, he refers to them as the “black” days. The ones during which they buried Colin, and Fred, and Tonks, and Lupin, and Snape. The ones during which he stood, in black robes, graveyard after graveyard, empty speech after empty speech, and the weather was almost sickeningly sunny, and for the most part, he said nothing. Generally, he thinks he doesn’t have that much to say, anyway. It’s kind of new and kind of odd, for a boy who, for years, just wanted to be heard.

Overall, Kingsley’s the only one that Harry’s really talked to. The circumstances were strange, the day after the battle. The new Minister had his wand trained on Harry’s back in the dark. ‘Drop your wand and show yourself, nice and easy -’ he warned.

Harry hadn’t heard him come in, almost in a trance, and the space around them was gloomy and empty, Kingsley’s steps echoing in the room. Harry looked around him, couldn’t really explain how he’d ended up here. He’d woken up from a four-poster bed up in Gryffindor Tower and just walked the corridors of the castle under the Cloak, pushed a door open and ended up in a moonlit room, adjacent to the Great Hall. Kingsley repeated his order, cautiously approaching, and Harry just shrugged, declared: ‘My wand’s in my pocket but I’m not dropping it. Not _here._ ’

There was a body on the ground, lying in front of them. Harry had sat next to it, within arm’s reach, his heart hammering in his chest. He’d used his wand to poke at it, first, almost childlike, then the tip of his finger. The corpse felt like a corpse, like any other corpse, a _normal_ corpse, cold and lifeless. Harry had then lit a candle with the tip of his wand, watched it slowly consume at his side. It was like he’d felt the need to throw his own little funeral, the one that mourned that part of his life, too. Kingsley did not lower his wand, then, even as he let the door shut behind him. ‘Identify yourself,’ he instructed.

‘It is I, Harry Potter,’ he breathed, a weary sense of paranoia still lingering in the air. Harry tried to think of something, _anything_ , a single identifier he’d share with Kingsley that would confirm his identity but his mind went blank, unable to take his stare off the floor. ‘I, er,’ he paused, nodded at the corpse lying on the floor next to him. ‘I killed him.’

Looking back, it was probably the first time he said it. Far from the last. Every time he does, Ron always insists that it’s not strictly true. ‘You didn’t kill him, mate,’ he repeats. ‘The curse rebounded. He killed himself.’

Harry’s not sure if there even is a distinction and if so, why the distinction’s important, or who it’s important to. It’s always _felt_ irrelevant. Like Dumbledore would have done, he _guessed._ Cast a charm meant to disarm but guessed, deep down, that there was a strong enough chance that the curse _would_ indeed rebound. The possibility, he has to admit, didn’t quite bother him as much as it should have. He killed Voldemort to defend himself, sure, but also because he meant to. He feels like that’s _important,_ because that’s how it was always supposed to end, wasn’t it? _The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord –_

Yet, hours later, Harry sat in the dark and lit a candle for Tom Riddle, watched it burn until Kingsley came in and interrupted. Some things, in his brain, they don’t always make perfect sense.

Kingsley seemed to hesitate, then, shuffling. When Harry glanced back, the older man’s wand wasn’t pointing at him anymore. Perhaps the identifier had been found satisfactory or perhaps (more likely, Harry recognised), it was the broken, tired tone of his own words that had betrayed him to be the real thing, the real _Chosen One_. Voldemort’s body lied on the floor within arm’s reach and at first, Harry had almost expected him to stir, expected to feel something when he poked it with his fingers, a reminder of the excruciating pain that the man’s mere presence used to send up his scar. None of it had happened, though. Voldemort was just dead, and –

‘Sorry, we set up wards on the door just in case -’ Kingsley felt the need to explain, interrupting Harry’s thoughts. He trailed off. Guess they didn’t want to take the risk of Death Eaters coming in.

It was then, a few moments later, after the silence returned and faded away again, that Kingsley asked about the Elder Wand. ‘It’s a myth. Voldemort believed it so I played into that. It never existed,’ Harry said. On the forest, he explained: ‘I dodged the curse at the last minute. No one survives a killing curse, Minister, let alone twice.’ The Horcruxes, though - ‘They’re -’

‘I’m an Auror, Harry, I know what they are.’

Harry looked up in surprise, assessing the look on Kingsley’s face. He sighed. ‘Well, then, I can confirm that they’ve all been destroyed. We spent the last nine months getting rid of them.’

Kingsley raised an eyebrow at him, doubt etched across his face (just like he had done for the other two topics discussed). Harry shrugged, caught his look and admitted.

‘For that one, I swear I’m telling the truth.’

Kingsley gave out a short laugh but nodded, glanced around at the room. There was a look of understanding on his face and suddenly when Harry glanced back at Voldemort he couldn’t bear to be close to him, anymore. Got up and blew out the candle; the moon quickly became the only thing to cast a low glow on the ground. His heart skipped a beat. He waited with Kingsley, still almost expecting Riddle to rise in the dark. He didn’t. _Nothing_ moved.

‘He’s dead,’ Harry settled, looking up at Kingsley. ‘He’s dead, and I killed him, and that’s that. We all get to move on, I guess.’

‘Harry,’ Kingsley sighed. Before he could say anything else, though, anything about pain and sadness, and the inexplicable feeling of guilt that seemed to plague Harry’s days, Harry had already hurried out the room.

Since this is the story that he told Kingsley, that day, it became the one that was on the Ministry’s press release. A comfortable narrative to tell: Voldemort made Horcruxes, which Hermione, Ron and Harry had spent almost a year hunting for. The Elder Wand was just a ploy to get Riddle to show his game and, in the forest, Harry dodged the killing curse at the last minute. Ron, a few days after they came back to The Burrow, sat his family down and came clean about the locket and his stay at Shell Cottage. Harry told them how his best mate saved his life. Before anyone else could say anything, Ginny was the first to speak. ‘You were being possessed, Ron,’ she said. Harry noticed that she looked at her dad when she spoke; he wondered if that could have been something that the two of them had talked about. ‘It really wasn’t your fault.’

Tears flowed, that day, and a deluge of hugs was exchanged. Still, though, after seeing the pain and anguish that the retelling of _some_ of the past nine months inflicted upon the Weasleys, on top of the loss of their own son, Harry decided to keep the rest of the events to himself. When she read the official version in the papers, Hermione took Harry aside, he remembers, and said: ‘You were right to lie about the wand.’

Sure enough, weeks later, as Kingsley predicted, three Ministry owls land next to the three of them at breakfast, a couple of days after the Commission is officially announced. The contents of the large envelopes they receive are identical: an invitation to testify the first week of June (Hermione first, then Ron, then Harry) and a thirty-page long document entitled “Immunity Agreement.” This sends Hermione into a panic. She locks herself up in the bedroom upstairs, surrounded with quills, parchments and half a dozen books on Magical Law. Ginny, Ron and Harry decide to leave her to it and enlist Charlie into a two-a-side game of Quidditch in the garden. Harry and Charlie race each other to an old Snitch and Harry decides that he might just buy himself a new broom soon, now that he thinks about it.

That evening, when Hermione comes out of her shell, her hair looks even wilder than it usually does. Ron smirks at Harry and rolls his eyes when she drags the both of them out of the house, whispers rapidly so that they are not overheard. A light drizzle falls over them that evening; Harry’s glasses get slightly wet. ‘We don’t have to sign that thing or talk to them,’ she announces, the two boys next to her throwing quizzical looks at each other. ‘But if we don’t, although it’s very, very unlikely, I can’t _guarantee_ that they won’t prosecute us.’

Ron scoffs. Harry looks back at her, frowns, confused. ‘Prosecute us for _what_?’

‘Oh, Harry, I don’t know,’ she suggests sarcastically, faking a shrug. ‘Robbing a bank, impersonating Ministry personnel, _torturing_ one of the Carrows in front of a dozen witnesses -’

‘Oh, come on, Hermione, they were -’

‘I know, Harry, that’s not the _point_ ,’ Hermione hisses, crosses her arms like she does when she tries to make the other two see sense. ‘Look, I think they’re genuine about it. The agreements say that if we talk and tell the truth, we won’t be in trouble for anything that we’ve done since last summer. They just want us to tell them what happened without fear of repercussion. I actually think we should talk to them,’ she says. Her voice is cautious, Harry notices, like she knows what his reaction will be, how he will roll his eyes, already taking a step back. Hermione sighs. ‘Harry, it’s not like the old Ministry, I really think they’re trying to do things right, here. Whatever this Commission will find out, it’ll be the stuff that’ll be in History books for years to come! Don’t you want to tell them your version of events? I think we should.’

Harry ponders over it, face humid with rain. He finally wipes his glasses off with the sleeve of his jumper, thinks back to a time when having the Ministry of Magic ask him to tell his version of events was the only thing he’d ever wanted. Now, it just feels like the truth is something he wants to shield the world from.

‘I’m just concerned,’ Hermione says, looking straight at him. ‘Because you told everyone a half-baked lie about what happened in the forest and I’m not sure that will hold up in court. They’ve caught some of the Death Eaters, Harry. They saw you _dead._ They’ll say what they saw.’

Ron flinches at her words. Harry stares at his feet for a second before he sets his jaw, catching her gaze in the dark. A look is exchanged between the both of them and deep down, Harry knows that Hermione sees right through him. He sees through _her,_ too. The lies that they tell, they don’t only protect the others, they also protect themselves. Out of the three, Ron’s the only one who has actually owned up to the things that he’d rather have kept to himself. Harry’s kept silent about the forest, sure, but Hermione also hasn’t told anyone about Godric’s Hollow, or Malfoy Manor for that matter.

‘Well, okay, we can all make our own decisions, I guess,’ she announces, her tone suddenly resolute. ‘It says on there that we’re only responsible for testifying to what we’ve seen or done ourselves, not what we’ve been told,’ she adds, like the most obvious, practical thing to do. ‘But I thought that now that a bit of time’s passed, we might want to talk about what happened, you know, it can be good to -’

‘It does depend who you talk to -’ Ron interjects, then, and the two of them embark onto a long, somewhat tedious argument about whether or not they ought to share what they know with the Ministry of Magic and the wizarding community at large rather than a handful of chosen few, a conversation in which Harry, oddly, feels quite uninterested. If pushed, he’d probably side with Ron (he can’t imagine how telling a bunch of strangers in a courtroom that he was possessed by Voldemort would help him in the slightest) but generally speaking, he finds that he doesn’t have much of an opinion on the matter. For the first time in years, it probably is the first thing they don’t even need to decide on as a group and _that,_ somehow, feels more bizarre than anything else. ‘If they knew he survived another killing curse, it would just feed the frenzy,’ he hears Ron say, at some point, which is probably true but more than anything, Harry finds that he wants to keep the fact that he walked to his own death to himself. The fact that he asked his mother to stay with him. The _fear_ at the pit of his stomach, the wand that he kept inside his jacket because he was afraid he’d be tempted to pull it out. The moment when he walked past Ginny and silently wished for her to stop him. The fact that she was the last thing he thought of. The fact that he died, too. People would think that he was heroic, sing his praise even more than they already do, when honestly, he was just scared. A panicked, seventeen-year old kid. He has nightmares about it at night, still.

‘The Elder Wand, though,’ he quickly notes. ‘I don’t want you two to have to lie for me -’

‘Oh, that?’ Hermione asks. She’s matter-of-fact on that one, like it doesn’t even reach the level of being a real issue. ‘Of course, we’ll lie about that, Harry, don’t be daft,’ she shakes her head at him, like he’s ( _again)_ being the most ridiculous he’s ever been.

In his nightmares, sometimes, Hermione and Ron die. Sometimes the both of them at the same time. Sometimes, Ginny does and when he wakes up, Harry struggles to breathe for minutes on end; most of the time can’t get back to sleep. He’s been having a weird one lately, though, in which the scene in the forest replays in his head, except that at the last minute, Harry can’t bring himself to give up the fight. He reaches for his wand in his pocket and aims to kill. _Avada Kedavra_ , he says and the two jets of green light collide and explode. For a few minutes, Tom Riddle seems dead, lying on the forest grounds, but then the snake rises out of nowhere and Harry feels its fangs dig into his skin before he can do anything, the way Snape died in the Shrieking Shack. Voldemort wins, in his dreams, and everyone Harry loves dies.

With that, he’s got to admit that the rest of the month of May goes by quickly - with visits around Devon and what feels like a thousand funerals to attend - but also somewhat slowly (sometimes excruciatingly so, in fact), in a way that Harry can’t really comprehend. Every night, after The Burrow falls silent and everyone has gone to bed, Hermione sneaks into the bedroom that he shares with Ron, her former reverence at Mrs Weasley’s household rules casually thrown to the wind. The first time she does it, Harry doesn’t even raise his wand at her, just recognises the way she moves behind the door, the way she stands, uncertain, at the threshold. He’s lived with her in a tent for months, could draw her form in his sleep. 

She shifts uncomfortably. There are dark circles under her eyes and she looks so thin and fragile in the moonlight: skin and bones, and exhaustion. It was only when they got to The Burrow that Harry really noticed the toll, the _physical_ toll that the war had taken upon the three of them, once he compared their current looks to the ones from just a year before, with the pictures taken at Bill and Fleur’s wedding. In a frame on top of the Weasleys’ mantlepiece, Hermione stands in her dress like frozen in time, laughing, with Ron and Harry at her sides. Now, she catches his gaze and: ‘I can’t sleep,’ she explains, nods at Ron’s bed in the dark. Their friend is fast asleep, the sound of his regular, deep breaths filling the room.

Harry has noticed that disparity in the Weasley family already. There are the sleepers, Ron and George, who seem to escape the current situation by sleeping the days and nights away as though the world in their dreams is kinder, softer than reality. Ginny seems to be part of that group, too, but only because she works herself out to a state of complete exhaustion from sunrise to sunset, with dirt on her face, Bludger bruises on her legs and the woody scent of broom polish on her fingers. Then, there’s them: Hermione and Harry, who seem to be awake at all hours of the night, roaming the house like zombies or staying up talking until dawn. ‘Do you mind?’ Hermione asks, that first night when she comes to Ron’s side, and Harry shakes his head.

‘Of course not,’ he says.

There is a sense comfort in the three of them being in the same room again. In the dark, Hermione buries her face in the crook of Ron’s neck and Harry notices how his friend almost automatically pulls her closer to him, his fingers gently caressing her arm. For days, Harry believes that Hermione just needs Ron by her side like he, himself, seems to need the both of them to _breathe,_ sometimes, until one night, he comes back into their room at 3 a.m. and Hermione hisses at him the moment he walks through the door. ‘Harry James Potter,’ she whispers angrily, visibly trying not to wake Ron. She’s not pointing her wand at him but Harry still feels bound to look down to the floor, shifts uncomfortably in a pair of dirty jeans much too loose for his bony hips. ‘I woke up and you weren’t there. Don’t you ever do that to me again.’

‘I was just –’ he starts but she cuts him off, her glare dark and pointed under the moonlight.

‘I know where you were. Don’t insult my intelligence, Harry. Just leave a note or something, will you?’

He almost puffs out a laugh. _A note?_ Sure, if Ron found that by accident, it certainly _would_ fly well. Not wanting to pick a fight at this ungodly hour, though, he just nods and fakes another wave of contrition in front of Hermione, because frankly at this point, it’s just easier than to argue.

Anyway, _yes,_ he was out of his room at three in the morning because, well, _that_ happens, too. Against all odds and without any sense of strategy, in the spring of 1998, _The Boy Who Lived_ falls in love. Completely, wholeheartedly, passionately and, certainly, a bit recklessly. He loses his mind over a girl who used to be nothing but a dot on a map that he held close to his heart for the longest nine months of his life. Sometimes, even now, he can’t believe that she is there, within reach of the tip of his fingers, or lying in bed next to him. It almost feels intrusive, in a sense, to lay his eyes on her, like part of him perhaps believes that she isn’t real, a figure to be solely worshipped inside his head that will disappear the minute he glances away. Dumbledore’s words often come back to him when he catches himself indulging in these thoughts, afraid that he could somehow turn her into a figment of his imagination: even if it were happening inside his head, Ginny Weasley could still be real. 

Her name is on his lips every night that month. From the first day, the first time they do _it,_ in the boys’ dormitories of Gryffindor Tower, less than twenty-four hours after the battle. Harry’s crashed into a random bed on the first years’ floor and left Ron and Hermione to cuddle on the couch in the Common Room but the moment he wakes up, it’s to the mental image of Fred’s body lying dead on the floor with a smile on his lips, and he runs to the bathroom as fast as he can, the door swinging open under his weight. _The Boy Who Lived_ ends up hunched over the toilet, vomiting his guts out and it takes him a moment to emerge and finally notice her ( _Ginny_ – beautiful, fiery, exhausted Ginny), eyes open wide in surprise, cautiously watching him. Ginny’s hand hovers at the side of his shoulder without touching it, hesitant, when he begins to puke again. 

In his head, their reunion would have been something sweet, like her lips moving against his, the taste of the raspberry-flavoured lipstick she used to wear the year before. Sometimes even, his brain wouldn’t be as kind and he’d imagine a row: her shouting at the top of her lungs in a rapid succession of angry jabs about what an arsehole he was, and how her life had been ruined by him. He didn’t imagine this (didn’t imagine they’d need fixing). 

That morning, he wonders whether, if he was Hermione or Luna (if he had been a _friend_ , still), she would have cajoled him, passed him a towel after he was done. Instead, she hands him a toothbrush as he sits on his heels, barely dares to look at her. ‘You should shower,’ she says, and closes the door on her way out.

His hair is wet when he comes out half an hour later, surprised to find her still standing there by the window. Something in her look makes his heart rush. Harry’s wearing a clean pair of tracksuit bottoms and a t-shirt, and in the empty Gryffindor dormitories, that morning, Ginny Weasley steps forward and kisses him, open-mouthed and so close that he can actually touch her and know for a fact that this is _not_ a dream, that she _is_ real, that all of it was _real_ , from the Horcruxes to the forest again, to this, right here. She traces the line of his jaw, fingers grazed by the stubble at his cheeks and ruffles through the unruly mess of black hair that Hermione bravely attempted to cut before they left Shell Cottage. Harry’s breath catches in his throat when Ginny’s lips ghost over his, slow and out of practice. She tastes like an odd mix of cinnamon and salt, and deepens the kiss herself, doesn’t step away until she feels his hands on her hips, pulling her closer. ‘I -’ he starts as a whisper and stops, stops before he can tell her all the words of the world.

‘I don’t want -’ she says, glance finding his. ‘Let’s just not talk, okay?’

Before he went to bed, Harry saw Ginny accidentally aim her wand at a couple of second years who were poorly attempting a _Reparo_ on a collapsed wooden bench. A reflex. When he threw a glance in her direction, she bore the same look he’d seen in his own reflection, before, like she was scared of the things she was capable of.

Her glance falls in front of him that morning, finds her bare feet against the tiled floor. Harry takes a while before nodding, timid, and it might have been the beginning of their downfall, to tell the truth, the silent pact she makes him make, holding his palm in hers. They have sex for the first time, that day – _his_ first time and it _feels_ like hers, too, but he wouldn’t dare ask, not anymore, anyways – there, in the boy’s dormitories after the battle that killed, it seems, everybody but them. ‘Are you sure?’ Harry remembers he asked her, like something he knew but wanted her to voice out loud, an affirmation of sorts of how alive she made him feel.

They’d messed around before, of course (in Hogwarts), and he remembered his own fumbling fingers finding the warmth between her thighs in the Room of Requirement and the way her mouth had wrapped around him in a broom closet. She had admitted her own ignorance, then: ‘I’m not sure this is what I’m supposed to be doing, so, tell me if I’m doing it wrong,’ she’d said and by the time she’d finished, not only had they discovered that she’d done everything _right_ , actually, but frankly, Harry had also more of less forgotten the sound of his own name.

_This_ was different, though. He felt the sadness in her kisses but also felt like he needed this (needed _her)_ like his heart needed to keep beating. They’d never crossed that line before and the morning after the battle, he looked at her and she smiled against his lips, let her hands trail down his bare back, her short nails digging into his skin as he moved into her. She’d shut the door behind them, muttered a _Muffliato_ charm for good measure. ‘I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life, Harry,’ she told him, laughed. It sounded like music he hadn’t heard since he was a child. Since last year.

So, every night, now, he slips into her bedroom and the both of them explore all the things that they couldn’t explore before. There is resolve and method in Ginny’s actions, a newfound sense of purpose in their activities; she throws him looks throughout the days like she wants him to herself every minute of every night because every time they do _it_ , they seem to get better at _it_. Some time at the end of May, she even comes with him inside her for the first time, rather than at the touch of his mouth or fingers and frankly, Harry hasn’t been this proud since they won the Quidditch House Cup. ‘Last year,’ she whispers in the dark one night, naked and sated next to him. His fingers trace loose patterns against the pearly skin of her arm. ‘I kept thinking that if I ever saw you again, we needed to do this. I didn’t want to think that we could have died without actually doing it.’

To him, the spring of ‘98 is about sex and funerals.

They don’t _talk_ , though. When he looked at her after the battle, Harry thought they would have all the time in the world to talk and maybe they still do but in an odd and unexpected turn of events, it’s not what either of them _wants_ to do. They fool around and discover every inch of each other’s body but that thing that Ginny says about last year, it’s the most personal thing Harry ever hears her say, in that first month after the war. He can’t keep his mind from going around in circles about what might or might not have gone on at Hogwarts. There are a few scars on her body that look older, like they don’t come from the battle, and sometimes the idea of the Carrows and what they could have done to her makes him physically sick. One time, he tries to bring it up by letting his mouth drop kisses along a nasty line that runs down her stomach and she laughs, brings him back up to face her. ‘I’ll tell you about mine when you tell me about yours, Potter,’ she jokes and Harry has the distinct impression that the only reason she says that is that she knows for a fact, deep down, that he won’t tell her anything. There is a bruise on his chest over his heart directly where the curse hit; it turned black in a few days after the battle and then just stayed there, sore, painful, persistent. Hermione gives him her bottle of Dittany but it doesn’t seem to have any effect whatsoever. ‘Maybe you could cover it up with another tattoo,’ Ginny just jokes, one night. It’s the only thing she ever says about it.

Of course, Hermione is quick to point out that this whole thing is a train wreck waiting to happen but Harry strategically chooses to ignore her. If he spoke to Ginny, he’d run the risk of losing her and he can’t imagine that, on top of everything else. ‘ _Still,’_ Hermione frowns at him one morning; the both of them are hastily whispering in the middle of the corridor, queuing to use the bathroom. ‘You can’t build a healthy relationship like that, Harry.’

Harry thinks it’s a bit rich for Hermione to be giving him advice on matters of the heart after the years she and Ron spent at each other’s throats, but he’s smarter than to point _that_ out.

‘Ron suspects, you know? He told me. I honestly don’t think anyone would mind about you two, as long as you actually explained it. Oh, Harry, if you just talked to people sometimes -’

Of course, he would like to tell her that he’s not the only one being cautious, here, that Ginny doesn’t seem too keen on talking to him either, but he feels like that would be a betrayal of Ginny’s trust. As for the reasons why _he_ ’s not talking to her, well, it’s not that he doesn’t trust her (he _does_ , more than anyone else in the world), it’s just that he likes that _this,_ the bubble that they’re in, has nothing to do with last year. Ginny, in his head, is the future that he wants to be in, the same glimmer of hope she used to be when he stared at her name on the map for hours and thought of what their lives could be.

He rolls his eyes at Hermione and tells her to mind her own business. She remains frosty with him all through Teddy and Andromeda’s visit, that afternoon but Harry decides that it doesn’t matter. His godson himself is also one of the very few people who give him hope, these days. Every time he comes to The Burrow, it feels to Harry like a light shone through the night and although he doesn’t really have any point of reference for comparison, Teddy seems to be, by all standards, a very happy baby. He rarely ever cries and when Andromeda puts him in Harry’s arms for the first time, he just looks up at his godfather, content, while Harry’s heart races in his chest, terrified that he could somehow break this most precious little thing. The discomfort must be readable on his face because everyone kind of laughs (a genuine laugh - they’re more and more frequent, these days) and Ron’s mum shakes her head at him in amusement. ‘You look like Arthur when we first had Bill, Harry,’ she says, her eyes kind and smiling.

Andromeda stands alone with Teddy in the back garden a few hours later, the rain’s stopped but the grounds are muddy, clouds heavy in the sky. A very thin mist seems to remain in the air; it frizzes her hair. ‘I had to take him outside,’ she explains and it’s the first time, under the orange light of the late spring evenings, that Harry notices the dark circles under her eyes. ‘He was fussing a bit.’

A bird looms in and lands over the roof of the broom shed. Teddy points at it empathically, trying to draw his nan’s attention to it as his hair suddenly turns bright red. Harry speaks before he can stop himself or let his own fears of inadequacy resurface. ‘I want to be there for him,’ he says, just as Andromeda smiles and nods: _it’s a bird, yeah, Teddy!_

At Harry’s words, though, she immediately looks up from her grandson. Her dark glance seems to pierce into Harry’s soul.

‘Anything you need, anything he needs,’ he adds, uttered firmly in the near silence. ‘I think I’m not great with babies,’ he admits, reminded of how awkward he was, holding Teddy, just a few hours before. ‘But I want to do for him all the things that Sirius couldn’t do for me, you know?’

His godfather’s name, it seems, is what makes Andromeda smile, in the end. It softens her gaze like an ointment on a wound and she nods after a while, quiet, asks: ‘Would you like to try holding him again?’

And there, without the pressure of the world looking down upon them, Harry gently takes Teddy from her arms and suddenly, everything around them feels _right._ The little one’s head fits against his chest and the world is immediately better for it, safe and protected, cocooned, like a child ( _this_ child), that little bundle of life in Harry’s arms will be the one thing that will set everything right. Teddy coos softly as Andromeda retreats back to the house and they both stand in the garden under the soft, evening light.

_They loved you, Teddy_ , Harry thinks, rocking him with a hand to the back of his head. _So, bloody much._


	2. out of wood (ashes twirl)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sitting here unemployed due to Covid and wondering if retreating to a desert island to write fic 24/7 is a viable option hahahah. Jokes aside, I will try to update in a month or so but bear in mind that I might do Nanowrimo next month so might have to pause this until December. If that is the case, apologies in advance.
> 
> A quick note UK criminal procedure (you'll see that it is relevant, I promise) because I had a couple of comments over on ff that made me just want to clarify something. In the UK, "going no comment" would be the equivalent of what Americans would call "the right to remain silent." The police asks you questions and you just say: "no comment," giving what is referred to as a "no comment interview." Now, there are a lot of legal subtleties to this (like adverse inference which iirc isn't a thing in the US/Canada) but generally, that's the idea. As a side note, I will add that contrary to what Hermione says in book 7, the wizarding world actually does need more lawyers and that if Sirius had had proper representation and due process, we probably wouldn't be sitting here :D.
> 
> Regardless, thank you so much for all the reviews and kind words, they really make my day. As someone who's only ever written for small fandoms, the sheer amount of kudos has blown my mind and I cannot thank you enough. I really hope you enjoy this chapter :).

_ ii. out of wood (ashes twirl) _

.

.

.

In a somewhat peculiar turn of events, it’s Petunia who gives Harry the idea. He remembers the programmes that she used to watch on the telly when he was small, the ones with the bizarre colour-schemes that made it all feel like a documentary shot in the dark; she and Vernon would tut and nod whenever the filmmakers wanted them to, throwing each other looks of solemn affliction as the coppers brought to trial ‘all these criminals,’ rampant on the streets of Britain. Harry remembers that once, he peaked at the TV instead of doing the dishes and at the police station, the suspect just refused to answer questions. ‘No comment,’ he’d just say. The cops on screen seemed to keep going through the motions, but they weren’t getting anywhere.

The next time Vernon smirked, asked Harry if he’d enjoyed his time with Mrs Figg – ‘No comment,’ he just said.

A big, fat, hand wrapped around his neck and threw Harry into the wall. That day, he learnt two things: 1) that _no comment_ isn’t always the best response and 2), that the rules that seemed to keep the policemen in check did not apply in his household.

In ‘98, the month of May ends the same way it started (in a blur), and June rolls around quietly, with roses that bloom around the church, in Ottery St Catchpole. Harry - perhaps foolishly - remembers that when the lot of them were kids (at the beginning of the war, before Dumbledore died, before, well, _everything_ ), Ginny told him that June was her favourite month. Their days stretched out into nights, the sky dark and blue but never truly black; when Harry closes his eyes, he still sees her laying on the grass at Hogwarts, head against his chest, watching the clouds as they moved above their heads. Their dusks were seemingly endless, tinted soft pinks and oranges. ‘I hate that we have exams in June,’ she said, her breath tickling the skin at the neckline of his shirt. He liked that she wanted to do well on her O.W.Ls. ‘It’s usually my favourite month.’

Harry shifted to catch her gaze. He’d always assumed her favourite month would be her birthday month. He’s not quite sure why. ‘Really?’

‘Yeah, I don’t know, it’s just kind of hopeful, isn’t it? The start of the summer,’ she said with a smile. Ginny had always been a summer girl; he recalled the way the sun would dot freckles on her skin, the Quidditch pick-up games before his sixth year. Back then, he could tell from the tone of her voice and the quick look she threw him that she was a bit embarrassed to admit this to him, like her words both wanted and didn’t want to come out. ‘I, er -’ she sighed. ‘I was a bit afraid of the dark when I was, like, five?’ she spoke, quick, her head settling back against his shoulder; she looked up to the sky. ‘But the days are so long in June,’ she added and Harry could hear a smile in her voice again. ‘It was my time to shine.’

Harry’s fingers absentmindedly drew patterns on the skin of her arm. ‘You’re always shining to me,’ he said and she burst out a laugh, genuine amusement on her face. These were different times.

‘Soppy,’ she said but grinned anyway, stole a quick peck from his lips. He tried to deepen the kiss, his hands quickly finding their usual spot on her hips – there was something in him that wanted to know her to be close by, all of the time. Ginny pulled away, a hand at the side of his face. ‘But true.’

He kissed her again, then, palms finding their way under the rumpled shirt of her school uniform, trailing up to the clasp of her bra. It was astonishing to him how just a few months back, all he’d ever had, had been the prospect of spending his nights dreaming to touch her, like it was surely the only possible way he could ever have her. Reality, as far as he was concerned, greatly surpassed fiction.

‘What?’ she asked, breaking away for a moment as he smiled against her lips.

‘I don’t know,’ he confessed, amused. ‘It’s just a bit hard to picture you being afraid of the dark.’ She smiled. ‘You’re not afraid of anything.’

She titled her head to the side a bit, he noticed. Ginny Weasley was only eleven when she single-handedly attempted to fight the murderer in her brain. To Harry, she was always so _brave_ , like she embodied the meaning of the word itself (like before he’d met her, he’d never quite understood what it meant). She smiled, whispered in his ear before kissing him. ‘If you only knew,’ she muttered, so close that he could smell the scent of her shampoo. He breathed in, closed his eyes and thought that, _yeah_ , _June’s the best month of all_. ‘I’m afraid of _everything,_ Potter.’

A year later, roses bloom once again in the gardens of Ottery St Catchpole and Harry’s still holding her. Some things in life never change, he muses, although, of course, _everything_ else has changed. They’ve both fought in a war that should never have been theirs and one of her brothers has died, leaving the start of the summer to mend itself without them, trapped in a combative attempt to shovel the little hope it has left down their throats. When Harry caresses Ginny’s skin, the summer of ‘98, she’s naked next to him, the both of them tucked in her small, twin bed at The Burrow. They try to be quiet, always, despite the silencing charms they cast but they each have a side, now, an oddly domestic habit, and after they have sex, Harry often lays with her body wrapped around him, so close that he’s never quite sure where her limbs start and where his end. Her bed’s pushed up against her window - along the skin of his left arm, he feels the morning dew build as the night chill leaves the air; it trickles down the single-glazed glass. They watch the sun rise together - early mornings and milky skies.

Here, just like on the Hogwarts grounds last year, reality is better than anything he could have imagined in that mouldy, dingy tent of his. Outside Ginny’s window, the night ends and Harry just lies there, _looks_ at her, unable to believe his luck. ‘Do you think someone can be both brave _and_ scared?’ he asks, whispers.

It’s the last night they have together before Ron, Hermione and he leave for London for a week of depositions in front of a Commission that Harry’s still not sure he feels entirely comfortable with. Ron and Hermione have both signed their immunity agreements but he’s yet to decide what to do about his. Ginny tilts her head to the side again, a little bit like she did last year – there’s something in her look that Harry can’t quite identify. ‘Is this you being nervous about tomorrow?’ she asks and sometimes, he wishes that she weren’t so blunt. He feels conflicted about that wish, though, because it’s also one of things he likes best about her.

‘Yeah,’ he admits.

Ginny’s fingers trace sleepy patterns over the bruise at his chest that has yet to fade (Harry has a strong inkling that it never will). She does that sometimes, he’s noticed. Never asks about it, of course (it’s one of those things that they do _not_ talk about) but one night when she did it, he looked at her and raised an eyebrow. Ginny was on top of him as they kissed, hand just placed on his skin, motionless. ‘I like to feel your heart beat,’ she explained, her gaze locked onto his as her other hand made its way down between them, slow and teasing. Harry’s breath caught in his throat when her fingers wrapped around him. A sharp intake of air; he closed his eyes and opened them, still finding her right there – she moved so tantalisingly slow it drove him almost mad – even _he_ noticed his own pulse quickening with every stroke that she gave. Her mouth and teeth trailed down his neck and: ‘Yeah, like that,’ she said, dropping kisses at his pulse point. ‘Now, I know I’m doing something right.’

He wanted to tell her that as far as he was concerned, she always did everything right.

That June, she simply looks at him and nods. Ginny Weasley closes her eyes and Harry watches as her eyelashes contrast against the pearly skin of her cheeks. Something moves in the bushes outside her window, a gnome going about its business. It’s almost daylight, now, almost time for him to reluctantly leave her bed and head back to Ron’s room before anyone finds him places where he definitely shouldn’t be. Sometimes Harry runs into Hermione on her walk back to _her_ room; she always looks half-awake and barely says hello.

That night, Ginny drops a lazy peck on his lips, pulls him close and says: ‘No one’s entitled to a story you don’t want to tell, Harry,’ she pauses. ‘Not even me.’

He remembers the way Uncle Vernon’s hand wrapped around his throat, back in the day, thinks that _that_ has not always been true.

The next morning, in London, Harry, Ron and Hermione are up early. They sit, drink what feels like litres of coffee and tea in the empty breakfast room of a nondescript, Muggle hotel. They’re staying there for the length of their depositions and it’s odd for the three of them to be by themselves again, after weeks spent in the overcrowded Burrow. Harry spots a tired-looking Auror in Muggle clothing guarding the entrance at reception, pretending to read a magazine.

Even on his best days, Harry’s jumpy. The fact is that the simple act of existing in this world makes noises that he can’t really cope with. At night, he still sleeps with his fingers wrapped around his wand, underneath his pillow. There are things about him that people didn’t see back in May (perhaps when their minds were overrun by their own struggles and worries) that they seem to notice, now. When the three of them select a table at the hotel, Harry chooses the one where he can have a direct view of the entrance - even then, he can’t help but turning around to check the emergency exit, every once in a while. Hermione’s look is kind when she lays a hand on his arm. ‘Stop it,’ she mutters. ‘You’re making _me_ edgy, Harry.’

That morning, they barely manage to swallow any food. For the other two’s sakes, Harry tries to hide the knot in his stomach, can tell that Hermione is anxious enough for the three of them - she keeps tapping an annoying rhythm against the table with the tips of her fingers, doesn’t even seem to realise she’s doing it. Her make-up is minimal, the varnish on her nails a plain but shiny transparent. For some unknown reason, Harry’s mind drifts back to Ginny, how she always painted her nails in bright colours in school, reds and oranges, and golds, performed complicated charm work on them so that the varnish would stick. ‘If I don’t, it always chips away with Quidditch,’ she explained, once. 

The moment the receptionist exits the breakfast room and leaves them alone, Hermione quickly _scourgifies_ a couple of bread crumbs from Ron’s lap, straightens her own collar. Her suit is impeccably ironed, black pencil skirt hanging a bit loose from her hips, falling just below her knee. She’s lost weight again, he muses. A shirt is tucked under her dark jacket, the two top buttons conservatively undone, revealing a thin, discreet and elegant, golden chain. Ron raised an eyebrow when she came out of her room this morning, eyeing her up and down.

Hermione shrugged, let the door close behind her with a dull thud. ‘I want them to see I’m Muggle-born,’ she said.

When the cleaning lady threw a questioning look at Ron and Harry’s robes, Hermione let out a mock-excited gasp.

‘We’re going to a convention,’ she almost squealed. Her voice was childish and out of place, if Harry hadn’t seen her lips move, he would have sworn the words were uttered by someone else. The cleaning lady shrugged, indifferent, and Harry suddenly had a bizarre flashback of that summer when Dudley got obsessed with Star Wars. 

He sits in his chair, now, watches his two friends interact in silence. They can’t legally Apparate either, these days, the Ministry having executively revoked their licences last year due to their ‘association with an undesirable wizard,’ so the plan is for the three of them to take the Tube, first, then Floo into the Ministry from one of the Auror safehouses, a couple streets out from Covent Garden.

‘It’s almost eight,’ Hermione suddenly declares, glancing at her watch before collecting her purse from the floor. It’s the infamous beaded bag, Harry notices, and he wonders if she’s still ready for them to take off and run at any moment if they have to, even now that the war’s over. Harry takes one look at her outfit again and grabs his old Gryffindor scarf from the back of his chair, slides it to her before she stands. Hermione’s hand instinctively settles on it, feels the wool beneath her fingers. She throws Harry a curious look.

‘You’re going to want this,’ he just shrugs.

Hermione raises an eyebrow again, gaze studying his scarf suspiciously. It’s bright red and, Harry guesses, does not fit in at all with the rest of her rather conservative attire. He sighs, drains the last drops of his third mug of tea.

‘When we get there, it’ll be like the craziest circus you’ve ever been to,’ he speaks, quick, before he runs out of words. There is an urgency to the things that he needs to tell them both, ones that they don’t necessarily want to hear. It’s not a _war,_ but it’s certainly another battle, out there. ‘It’ll be dozens and dozens of people standing in a crowd, clapping and screaming, and wanting a piece of you. They’ll want to thank you, insult you, ask you questions, tell you personal stuff about themselves. They don’t mean anything bad by it, they just don’t really realise you’re a person. The press will be there, too, and they will be flashing their cameras just about five inches from your face to try and get a good shot,’ he adds, raising his hand close to his own cheek, showing them the distance. ‘They’ll want to touch you, have you sign stuff, and they’ll keep talking to you from the moment you step out of that fireplace to the moment you get into the lift. We’ll have an escort of Aurors around us to try and hold them back but I honestly doubt that they’ll be able to do much. It’ll feel like you’re in the longest tunnel you’ve ever been through and you can’t see the exit. At least, wear that scarf over your head, it’ll hide your face and your eyes from the cameras, protect you a bit. Ron, you can use the hood at the back of your robes.’

Both of Harry’s hands lay flat in front of him. The other two stare, blank, for a few of seconds, like there’s a magnitude to the words that he’s just said that he’s not sure he really comprehends. Hermione finally picks up the scarf from the table and ties it around her neck. She looks up at him. ‘You?’ she asks, her glance finding his robes. There’s no hood at the back of them so she must realise that he’d packed the scarf for himself. Harry just shrugs.

‘I’ll be fine,’ he says, breathing in deep as he pushes himself up from his seat. ‘I’m used to it. Let’s go.’

Hermione’s deposition lasts two full days. By the end of it, she looks washed out, exhausted, but oddly relieved. She tells them _everything_. From their decision to go to Godric’s Hollow to the specific curses that Bellatrix performed on her at Malfoy Manor. Harry somehow wishes the woman was still alive so that they could convict her. Mrs May Kelly, the President of the Commission, thanks Hermione for her service to the wizarding community. ‘You’re a very brave witch, Miss Granger,’ she tells her in closing remarks. ‘We’ll recommend you for an Order of Merlin, First Class.’

Later, Hermione whispers to Harry and Ron that Mrs Kelly used to be the UK’s wizarding ambassador to Australia, before the war. ‘She said she might be able to help,’ Hermione explains and there’s a glimmer of hope in her voice, for the first time in a long time. ‘I could maybe go in a few weeks, once they’re located. Can you imagine?’

Harry smiles. To be honest, he feels like it’s the first real piece of good news they’ve had in an eternity.

Ron deposes next, for a day and a half. They thank him, too, with similar recommendations, offer condolences for Fred. ‘It wasn’t that bad, actually,’ he tells Harry after they leave the Ministry at around three that afternoon. ‘Kind of cool to sit in front of all these important people and have something to say.’

That night, he goes out to celebrate over a pint with his brothers. They invite Hermione and Harry, of course, but although he’d never admit it, the mere idea of being out in public at the Leaky Cauldron gives _The Boy Who Lived_ anxiety. Hermione claims: ‘I’m exhausted, Ron,’ and the three of them graciously pretend that she’s not only just saying that because she would never, _ever,_ leave Harry alone on the eve of his deposition. Ron himself seems hesitant about going (this regardless of how many times Harry insists that: _it’s_ _all right, really_ ) but Bill’s in London on a mission for Kingsley and George has decided to go in and sort out the shop, so it’s just one of those occasions that can’t be missed.

A few days before they left for London, George pulled a prank on Ron with an enchanted spider, made everyone laugh around the dinner table. Later, he bluntly announced that Weasley Wizard Wheezes would be reopening on the 1st of July. Mr and Mrs Weasley looked up at their son with a mixture of pride and apprehension in their eyes.

‘Are you sure, dear?’ Mrs Weasley asked in a voice that seemed caught up in her throat. George just shrugged.

‘People need a laugh, Mum.’

So, the afternoon after Ron’s deposition, as soon as they’re dismissed, Harry and Hermione make their way back to the hotel on their own. Harry likes Hermione’s company. They agree to walk back to the hotel rather than take the Tube and the silence is comfortable between them, only ever interrupted by the random hoots of cars stuck in traffic, or quiet chatter about directions. Hermione switches her short, conservative heels with a pair of old, dirty trainers and Harry changes into jeans and a t-shirt. They both effortlessly blend into the Muggle world. As busy as London can be, it oddly feels like a reprieve, a place where they can get lost without the madness that encircles them at the Ministry. The contrast is almost unbelievable, at times. In Muggle London, they’re just a couple of nobodies.

They stop at a café on their way up to Islington; Harry sits at a table by the window, gets tea and a KitKat. Hermione smiles down at her cappuccino as she watches him eat, says: ‘Sorry, I always forget you grew up with Muggles, too.’ She points to the snack in his hand. ‘I kind of miss M&Ms, you know?’

Harry grins before he nods, almost laughs at the memory that suddenly hits his brain. ‘Dudley used to eat about three packs a day,’ he recalls with a smile, leans against the back of his chair. ‘That was before they put him on a diet, obviously.’

Hermione does genuinely laugh at this – he sees it in her eyes, the little lines at the corners - and it occurs to Harry, watching her, that in an odd turn of events, he’s not quite sure when, exactly, they both grew up. On the other hand, come to think of it, he can’t really remember a time when they didn’t act well beyond their years, either. Hermione and Ron used to send him food to Privet Drive, pieces of cake hidden under the floorboards.

Every time he looks at her, Harry thinks that Hermione will always be eleven in his head. The bushy-haired girl with large front teeth who cried in the loo and faced a troll. He wonders, sometimes, if she still sees him as the lost and skinny boy he used to be, the one who knew nothing about magic, least of all the reason why everybody always seemed to be staring at him all the time. He also wonders if, really, he’s even changed at all. By all standards, Harry’s still rather lost, and definitely skinny.

When he looks at her, across the table, Hermione’s also the girl who loved her parents so much she made them forget that she even existed. Sometimes, the two can almost be impossible to reconcile. Harry remembers Lupin and Sirius a few years ago, how they justified his father’s actions in the Pensive. ‘He was fifteen,’ they said, and it occurs to Harry, now, that he can’t remember ever just being “ _fifteen_.”

Behind her smile, now, Hermione watches him and Harry knows, instantly, that she’s thinking of how in _his_ memories, it was Dudley who ate the three packs of M&Ms a day, not him. She shifts, her knee bumping into his; he feels the fabric of her tights against that of his jeans. ‘Why were we never kids?’ he suddenly asks, both an attempt at distracting her from her own thoughts and a genuine question; it tumbles from his lips before it can be stopped. They _were_ kids, Harry thinks, once upon a time, but also, _not_. 

Hermione looks up, catches his gaze and almost instantly, he sees the tears prickling at the corner of her eyes. ‘Oh, Harry.’

They leave the café at about six in the evening, walk the next thirty minutes back to their hotel. Hermione explains what the Ministry’s plans are to help with her parents. Ron has already agreed to come to Australia, she adds, once the Grangers are located. Harry gives her a smile, knows what she’ll ask before she even speaks, like a testament to how well he knows her. ‘I’d love for you to come, too,’ she says as they cross a street up towards the British Museum.

Harry smiles, shakes his head. It’s time they all spent some time apart, he thinks. He needs time to think about Kingsley’s proposal for the Auror job, really, and Ginny, and –

Harry catches Hermione’s look, playfully bites his lip. ‘I think it’d better be just you and Ron,’ he teases with a tell-tale _if you know what I mean_ rise of his eyebrow. ‘Thousands of miles away from his parents…’

Hermione turns bright pink. Chuckles and looks to the floor at the same time, the colour in her cheeks mirroring the red of Harry’s scarf around her neck. She never gave it back to him, after that first day, but he finds that he quite likes the look of it on her, it reminds him of those afternoons she’d spend huddled in the cold, pretending to study on the terraces as she watched Ron and he try to win at Quidditch games. ‘Actually, I don’t know,’ she sighs, seconds later, refusing to cross Harry’s gaze. ‘We haven’t,’ she stumbles over her words, almost trips over a pothole. Her cheeks get more and more red by the minute. ‘I mean –’

Harry bursts out a laugh, loud, in the middle of the street. She shoots him a glare that only makes him laugh harder, lips stretching into a large grin. That’s a _lot_ more information than he’s ever wanted to know about Ron and Hermione’s _private business_ , to say the least, and yet the embarrassment on her face is what makes him laugh, more than anything else - how very Hermione. She shoots him another _look_ as they walk on, pass a Tesco Express at the corner. ‘Well, I don’t know, I just assumed,’ he explains, shrugging, hands thrown up in the air like it’s not _his_ fault. ‘I mean, I hate to ask but what have two guys been doing every night when I’m in Ginny’s room?’

‘We _sleep_!’ Hermione tells him, indignant. Her glare forces him to stifle another round of giggles.

That evening, the both of them eat Pad Thai takeaway and sit on the floor in front of the muted hotel telly. They laugh at funny Hogwarts stories of Romilda Vane and crazy things that Harry remembers Luna saying. They drain a few cans of bitter and wait for Ron to get home.

‘So, you and Ginny, then?’ Hermione asks (or states, Harry’s not quite sure), curious and a bit tipsy; he kind of rolls his eyes in amusement but also suspects that he’s in for another earful about how he should open up to his _girlfriend_ about the war, open his heart and help her mend his wounds. Harry just shrugs, drinks another sip of his drink.

‘Yup,’ he says. ‘Me and Ginny.’

‘Ah, come on, Harry, don’t be like that,’ Hermione sighs, shakes her head at him. ‘I promise I won’t tell. Who else are you going to talk to, anyway? _Ron?_ ’

Harry lets out a sort of snort in response but upon reflection, he guesses that _yes_ , she does have a point. As she pretty expertly pointed out last month, Harry thinks that Ron probably knows about him and Ginny (and he’s pretty sure that Bill suspects, too, from the few glares Harry’s received from the eldest Weasley over Sunday brunch) but it’s just the worst kept secret of The Burrow these days, the one that’s sort of harmless and that no one really ever talks about because there always seem to be bigger fish to fry. Harry lives in a constant state of alert, though, wondering when the penny will drop, waiting for the day when Mrs Weasley (or, Merlin forbid, _Mr_ Weasley) will finally wake up to the fact that he’s been shagging their only daughter _under their fucking roof_ every night since they got back from Hogwarts and promptly decide to – probably rightfully – kick him out of their house. For now they haven’t, though, so Harry remains in an endless state of fear which, bizarrely, seems to suit him just fine. He’s not sure what Ginny thinks about it all, to be honest, beyond the fact that she still seems to welcome him into her bed every night so he’d be a pretty stupid git to say anything and jeopardise the fragile equilibrium they’ve found.

Looking at Hermione now, sitting on the floor of her hotel room, he flicks open another can of beer, hears the pressure fizz out like a light sigh before he speaks. ‘Ginny’s, er,’ he starts, thinks, steals a sip. He’s not quite sure where to even begin. ‘She’s funny,’ he acknowledges with a shrug. Hermione smiles. ‘And, er – well, she’s _perfect_ , really.’

Hermione bursts out a laugh, shakes her head at him, almost disbelieving. ‘No one’s _perfect_ , Harry,’ she corrects, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. ‘But you’re happy,’ she smiles. ‘It’s a new look. Kind of suits you. You’re in love, aren’t you?’

And, _yeah,_ he is. Of course, he is. He’s been in love with Ginny Weasley ever since he was sixteen and felt torn apart at the very sight of Dean kissing her in The Three Broomsticks. She’s the first thing he thinks of when he gets up in the morning and the last thing he thought of just before he died. Every moment he spends away from her feels like his body is missing an integral part of it, something like his heart or his conscience, something that makes it almost impossible for him to function. In his head, he has entire conversations with her. They talk about the war and the future they’ll have; she wants kids, he knows, and he imagines her pregnant in a few years, a fiery look in her gaze and his hand caressing her belly. Of course, he’s in love, and he can barely remember what it was like not to be.

From the look on Hermione’s face when he glances back at her, Harry’s pretty sure this isn’t news to her, either. He wonders how she’d react if he pointed out that _she_ ’s very obviously in love with Ron, but decides not to risk it. Instead, he bites his lip when she follows up and asks: ‘Have you told her?’

The words roll off his tongue with a shrug. ‘Timing’s not right.’

And to Harry’s surprise, when Hermione looks up from her spot on the floor, her back against the side of her bed, she _nods_. Shrugs in agreement as her hand absentmindedly pulls at the carpet of the hotel room. ‘It’s odd,’ she says. ‘The war. It’s like it’s made you more reckless with the things that don’t matter, and more cautious for the things that do.’

There is a pause in her speech when she catches his gaze. He knows what she means. _You smoke cigarettes, Harry, but you don’t tell Ginny you love her, do you?_

He answers with another shrug – it’s quickly becoming a bad habit, these days. ‘People died,’ he says, something that’s both an explanation and _not_. People died and with that, he learnt to be reckless with his own life but prudent with that of others. When he crosses her gaze, though, Hermione nods, something sad in her smile when she lays her head against his shoulder, closes her eyes. He gets the distinct impression she doesn’t want to look at him.

‘So did you,’ she observes. Her voice cracks. ‘I almost lost my brother, too.’

Her tears damp his shirt, that night, and Harry’s not quite sure what to do other than hold her through it. ‘I’m sorry,’ he mutters in her hair under the bright, hotel lights. And: ‘I love you.’

(Love in its million different forms, the way Dumbledore preached it. Harry loves Hermione the way he loves Ron, like the boy who introduced him to chocolate frogs and the girl who cried in the loo and faced a troll.

He loves the both of them so much that his life depends on it.)

Hermione falls asleep that night, eventually, her head on Harry’s shoulder and her feet tucked to the side. Harry’s not sure if it’s the exhaustion that plagues them, these days, or if it’s the alcohol that they’ve drunk but at some point, he shifts and looks down at her under the soft light of the bedside table and realises that her breathing has gotten more regular, that her tears have stopped. Carefully, he lifts her limp form in his arms and lays her down on the bed, pulls the covers up to her chin. He’s about to retreat to his own room when she hangs on to him, loosely reaching for his shoulder. ‘Stay, please,’ she mumbles in the dark. ‘Until Ron gets back, at least.’

When his best mate does so, a couple hours later, Harry’s playing with Dumbledore’s Snitch under the moonlight, the quiet flutter of its wings covering Hermione’s slow, sleeping breaths. Harry catches the Snitch and pockets it as Ron opens the door to Hermione’s room and throws him a questioning look; he brings his forefinger to his lips, mouths: _she’s asleep_ and points to the door that connects to his own room. With difficulty, Harry extricates himself from Hermione’s grasp and follows Ron through the threshold, leaving the door slightly ajar.

In contrast with Hermione’s, Harry’s room is brightly lit. Ceiling lights cast a somewhat aggressive glow on the general mess of his stuff, quills and parchments and dirty clothes scattered everywhere. Ron throws an amused look at their surroundings – Harry guesses Hermione makes him clean up after himself, these days.

In a series of hushed whispers, Harry tells him about their night. The laughs they shared, Hermione’s tears. Ron sighs, sits at the foot of the bed as Harry stands against the wall and kicks off his trainers. ‘She keeps having nightmares,’ he sighs. ‘I tried to tell her to talk to a Healer, but I guess if they knew, the press would never leave it alone,’ Ron says with a slump of his shoulders. Harry hates how it’s probably true. ‘I don’t know what to do. Her parents, Bellatrix; she says sometimes she dreams I got killed by Snatchers. Can you imagine, _me_ getting killed by _Snatchers_?’ he adds and throws a mock-insulted look at Harry who pretends to laugh, as though that’s the most ridiculous thing he’s ever heard. ‘I wish they’d just let us live a little, you know? It’s what Fred would have wanted.’

Harry nods. ‘It’ll be fine,’ he says, not quite sure who he’s trying to reassure, here, Ron, or himself. ‘We’ll all be fine.’

Ron shrugs, silent for a moment, looks up and, to Harry’s surprise, also chuckles a bit. ‘You know, come to think of it, I don’t know what’s worse: being you and having walked to your own death or being me and knowing your best mate was enough of a git to walk to his.’

They laugh, that night. Drink a bit more from Harry’s minibar before they finally go to bed, well after two in the morning. Ron talks about his brothers and his overwhelming sense of worry for George that seems to swallow up his own grief. He doesn’t put it in so many words, of course. Harry doesn’t judge – they all have their own ways of coping with whatever the hell this is.

For the first time in, frankly, as far as Harry can remember, they actually talk about the future. It had never occurred to Harry that there would be something after the war, and it’s odd to navigate through the fog, these days. He guesses that even if they had wanted to, they probably wouldn’t have been able to _plan,_ since all their plans always went to shit anyway, but it’s funny to be thinking about what they’ll do, now, and where they’ll live and who they’ll be. Ron speculates that Bill and Percy will stay at the Ministry and George at the shop, Charlie with his dragons, Ron with the Aurors.

‘Ginny will play professionally,’ he says and for the first time ever when it comes to Quidditch, Harry notices that there’s pride in Ron’s voice, rather than envy. ‘I’m sure of it. She’s been training so hard, anyway, I’d say she’ll even have her pick of teams.’ Ron shrugs, throws a look at Harry. ‘Whatever you do, don’t ever die on her again, by the way, or I swear I’ll kill you.’ There is a fire in his best friend’s eyes and for the life of him, Harry doesn’t doubt it. He wonders again if his best mate _knows_ , and exactly how much he knows, but doesn’t ask. As Hermione so graciously pointed out, Ginny isn’t something that he discusses with Ron. ‘When she saw you in Hagrid’s arms, the look on her face,’ Ron notes, a bit later. ‘I thought the ground was going to swallow her.’

That night, after the Ron re-joins Hermione in their room, Harry doesn’t sleep. He stares at the walls, plays with Dumbledore’s empty Snitch (if he still had the stone, he’d probably ask for his parents’ advise). Instead, he comes to a decision that he randomly blurts out over breakfast the next day. ‘Do you guys want Grimmauld Place?’

He wants to do something for them. Something gratuitous that has nothing to do with the war, but everything to do with their future. Hermione’s sharp look quickly finds his. Her eyes are still red and puffy; she looks a bit hungover. Ron almost spits out orange juice in surprise. ‘ _What_?’

‘I’m moving to London,’ Harry declares, matter-of-fact. He finds that he likes it here. There are things to do, everywhere, all the time, things that keep his mind busy without overloading it with thoughts of grief. Bright lights, distractions, theatre shows and Muggle shops to explore. A degree of anonymity that makes him feel almost comfortable in his own skin. He doesn’t need to Apparate miles and miles away to random villages across the West of England to be amongst Muggles. The only thing he needs to do is simply to steer clear of Diagon Alley. ‘I’m going to look for a flat, though. I can’t stay in that house.’

The other two nod, and Harry realises that _this,_ right there, is the reason why he loves them: he can just _say_ things without the need to _explain_.

‘I thought you might want to stay there, though,’ he adds, fiddling with the handle of his mug. ‘I can have Kreacher clean up – _Hermione_ ,’ he stresses when he catches the look on her face, before she even opens her mouth. ‘He’ll be glad to have something to do, honestly.’ Harry watches as she purses her mouth, rolls her eyes a bit, but doesn’t voice any of her objections. ‘I know the house is,’ he pauses, at a loss for words to describe it. ‘Well, it is what it is but you could probably move in by the time you get back from Australia, at least get yourselves out of The Burrow.’

Ron and Hermione are silent for a while. Ron turns to look at her, an eyebrow raised, trying to figure out what _she_ thinks. Harry surprises himself with his ability to decipher their wordless conversation. Hermione is hesitant, it seems, returns Ron’s quizzical look. Ron, however - _clearly_ \- thinks it’s a _brilliant_ idea. The two of them, away from the overbearing aura of his parents, what’s there not to like? Harry can tell that Hermione isn’t convinced, thinks that it’s _Harry’s_ house, not theirs, and that even if he _says_ he wants nothing to do with it, he might very well change his mind down the line. She doesn’t want to intrude. ‘We can just move in until you’re back at Hogwarts and see,’ Ron suggests, out loud. Hermione finally considers it and in the end, nods, somewhat shyly.

‘I guess we could, yeah.’

‘Brilliant. That’s settled, then,’ Harry says after another sip of tea. He’ll try to find a flat around City University, he imagines - they could all be close by.

‘Thanks, mate,’ Ron says. Harry pretends not to find it cute when he notices his best friend’s hand touch Hermione’s thigh under the table.

Later that morning, for his deposition, it is without any plan or preparation of any kind that Harry goes _no comment._ He always does best when he’s unprepared and his mind has been so clogged up with thoughts of Ginny and Ron, and Hermione, lately, that he walks into the courtroom and realises that he still doesn’t know what he’ll do.

He states his name for the record ( _Harry James Potter_ – it echoes in the amphitheatre) and he considers: Ginny’s words ( _No one’s entitled to a story you don’t want to tell, Harry)_ , Hermione’s tears, the sound of Ron’s laugh last night, his plea for them to “live a little.” Harry’s not sure how to end battles other than by making them _stop_. With the first question the Winzengamot ask, the first _no comment_ flows past his lips. A distant memory creeps back into his head from way back when and he just grabs it, holds it tight – surprisingly, the phrase feels natural and _right_ in his mouth. 

_Oh, of course,_ the Wizengamot officials aren’t happy. After he speaks, it’s another good ten minutes before the President of the Commission manages to get the room back to order. When a particularly raucous individual shouts: ‘But you’ve _got_ to tell us the truth about Dumbledore!’ she calmly asks a couple of Aurors to escort him out of the building. He continues to vociferate insults all the way down to the lift.

‘Mr Potter, I understand it is your intention to give a no comment interview at this point in time,’ Mrs Kelly says. Her quill moves on its own against her desk, taking notes as she speaks. ‘Is that correct?’

Up until this point, he hadn’t considered it. It’s bizarre and remarkable that in the end, she’s the one who gives him an out. ‘I guess, yeah.’

‘All right, then.’ Mrs Kelly speaks again, looks around at the rest of the room before turning back and giving him an apologetic shrug. She doesn’t sound upset. ‘We’ll still have to move ahead with our questions though, I’m afraid.’

In retrospect, in the days, months and years that follow, Harry’s never truly sure he did the right thing. For once, he thinks he put his own personal interest and that of those he loved ahead of those of the Wizarding world. There is no guilt in that, however, because there were no answers that he could have given that would help these people with the aftermath of a war, anyway. The truth about Dumbledore, _really_? The man who gave his life for Voldemort to be defeated and still also raised Harry like a pig for slaughter. These people, Harry realises, the Ministry and the institutions, they want _The Boy Who Lived_ to make every one of their struggles go away, and it isn’t something that any human can do. Harry can’t tell them what the solution is to rebuilding a world that’s so broken you can’t find most of its pieces, where all the wood of the frames has been burnt down to ashes. He can’t tell them how to heal and make peace with events that he’s still trying his hardest to push out of his head. Harry himself barely sleeps, most nights, so how on Earth could he help them?

In his mind, the only thing that he _can_ do, right now, is make sure that Hermione and Ron’s words are heard and not forgotten, or swept away like dust under a rug. That what they had to say (were brave enough to say) isn’t drowned out by the sound of his own words. If he talks, Harry knows that all they’ll ever remember (the media, the Ministry, the History books) is what _The Boy Who Lived_ told them. And that shouldn’t matter, not as much. Harry’s just a piece of this puzzle, not its key.

So, for what feels like an eternity, he just sits there as the Wizengamot presses on with their questions. Out of spite or protocol, Harry’s not sure. ‘No comment,’ he goes. ‘No comment.’ He feels drained and exhausted when one of the wizards at the back of the room asks: ‘Did you give yourself up in the forest?’ and Harry curses his own voice for breaking as he swallows and responds: ‘No comment.’

(If he spoke, he knows what they’d ask. He’s been wondering the same thing for seven years. _Why him? Why twice?_ Why not Fred, or Lupin, or whoever _they_ loved and lost? Sadly, he doesn’t have the answer to that question.

He’d give _anything_ to have the answer to it.)

That afternoon, after they dismiss him too early for his deposition to have been what the wizarding world expected it to be, Harry disappears. The air around him is suddenly quiet, even just for a few hours. Outside the courtroom at the Ministry, Ron and Hermione leap out of their seats in the corridor the moment he comes out. ‘Harry, it’s not even noon – what happened?’ Hermione asks. He never answers. Feels kind of guilty for dodging his two best friends, Kingsley, the crowds of reporters, but still makes it to the fire and Disapparates out of sight the moment he’s through.

Deliberation, Determination or whatever the fuck it was. There’s only one place where he wants to be, right now.

He Apparates on a side street. One of the ones that border the main square, the monument to his parents. When Hermione and he came here last Christmas, it had been dark and cold, lights twinkling with the wind, oddly homey and secretive at the same time. Harry hadn’t noticed: the Muggle elementary school down Shepperd’s Row, the town hall to his left, the shops on Merchants Road. Despite the overcast skies and the light, intermittent drizzle, there’s _life_ in Godric’s Hollow, something that didn’t even occur to him before.

That afternoon, he sits at the table of a Muggle pub for a while, with a pint that he doesn’t drink and a pack of cigarettes. Later, he makes his way down to a quaint, little shop that sells record players and CDs, buys a Walkman and whatever the sales guy recommends. ‘Have you been living under a rock?’ he asks when Harry admits to never having heard of Noel Gallagher.

Later, Oasis plays in his ears while he walks around the village (Harry’s not too sure about the band, to be honest, finds them a bit moany). Once or twice, he walks by a few wizards dressed in Muggle clothes who recognise him. He doesn’t mind it much, he finds, because none of them are too obvious or in his face. A couple walks by: she’s walking a pushchair up the road and his arm is wrapped around her waist. Her glance quickly flicks to Harry’s forehead and she gives her husband a nudge. Harry’s hand automatically wraps around his wand and he fucking _hates_ himself for it. Hates what this war has done to him, hates that it seems to be a reflex that he can’t let go of. Strangely, he kind of wants to stop them, sit down and ask about their kid’s nursery and time at the playground, and whether he or she gets along with the Muggle children. He wants them to tell him what it would be like, to raise a child here.

His parents’ cottage is still the same it was at Christmas, except that the number of flowers and messages on the outside seems to have doubled. Cards and thank you notes, childish drawings piling up against the little fence.

Harry’s not sure what possesses him to do it but this time, he opens the gate. Slowly, he walks up the stairs and imagines his mother handing him over to his dad while she levitated the pushchair up into their house. He imagines Tom Riddle storming in through their door (has actually _seen_ Tom Riddle storming in through their door – it’s not so much his imagination as a recollection, these days) – closes his eyes immediately, trying to shut out the memory. As Harry’s hand rests on the handle, though, he’s almost surprised to find it both untouched, and unlocked.

He _could_ go in, he guesses. At least take a look through the window. It would show their sitting room, maybe, a glimpse of their kitchen. Would anything be still in there? An empty container of his mum’s favourite coffee beans, Muggle CDs in a player she’d have saved from her teenage years. Would he have introduced her to Oasis, had she lived? It’s the kind of thing that he wishes he knew about them. What they liked: eating, drinking, doing. They were so, bloody _young_ , he thinks.

In the end, he doesn’t go in, though. There’s a sense in his heart that if he did, he’d never come back out. _It does not do well to dwell on dreams and forget to live,_ Dumbledore told him. Instead, Harry sits on the steps outside the house, almost guarding it as he sorts through what feels like his parents’ mail. Most of it is addressed to him, though, most of it from children. Clumsy, glittery handwriting. ‘Keep faith, Harry!’ and ‘United, we stand.’

There’s a letter, in the lot, that makes him laugh. He knows he shouldn’t laugh (not here, not where they _died_ ) but he can’t help himself. It’s the tone of it, the inelegant, yet oddly effective prose. Hermione would have been mortified if she’d been here to read it, but Harry thinks it’d have made his mother laugh (in time, maybe). 

_Dear Harry,_

_You don’t know me but I’m writing to apologise about all the nasty things I ever said about your Mum. She never knew it but I used to watch her that summer, about a year after you were born. You were barely walking and she’d manoeuvre your pushchair into town with a discreet flick of her wand like she was shoving her Outstanding Charms N.E.W.T. in everyone’s face. She’d wear those insanely tight, Muggle jean shorts that make her arse look fabulous and if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes, I’d never have believed she was ever pregnant. Where did all that baby weight go?? She’d always be eating these Cadbury chocolate bars, as well – you know, the Muggle ones? I kept cursing and calling her a bitch behind closed doors because I was jealous of her metabolism. I’m so sorry._

_I hope that you are well, wherever you are. I’m sorry they died, that must not have been easy. We’ve cast protective charms on the house, you should be the only one who can get in, in case you ever want to. My husband and four children are all Muggles so I’m trying to protect them the best I can. It was scary when He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named came, a couple weeks ago. People weren’t sure why he did it, on Christmas Eve of all times, but I think he was after you. I went to visit my brother’s grave the next day and I think you left flowers on your parents’. I didn’t tell anyone. He must have been waiting for you – that’s such a shit thing to do. Everyone should have a right to grieve in peace, even if they’re Harry Potter. So, anyway, I’m really rooting for you. I hope he dies._

_Oh, Merlin, now you must think I’m a horrible person. Again, I’m sorry._

_Kind regards,_

_Alma Neuruppin_

That afternoon, Harry reads that letter over a dozen times. It explains why the house is immaculate, kept intact by the love and respect that the people of this village showed his parents, out of the goodness of their hearts. He wishes there was a way he could thank them. Harry’s not sure if he’ll ever want to get in but at least, it’s a small comfort to know that no one else can. He likes everything about the letter. It’s a slice of life, his mum’s life. The Cadbury chocolates and incredible metabolism. Something that she carried over from her Muggle life, too.

He wonders what brought his parents here, to Godric’s Hollow. Was it just convenience? The place where his dad grew up? Was it the quiet or the good Muggle primary schools? Did his mum care about that? Did she care about (maybe wanted to) be away from her family? Did Harry ever get to meet his grandparents before they died, even when he was just a baby?

Later, he lays lilies on their grave. He does so in silence, isn’t exactly one to speak with dead people if he can avoid it. The only other times when he’s ever talked to his parents were when he was the edge of death himself. Instead, Harry sits cross-legged on the wet grounds, smokes a cigarette. Lights it up with his wand and wonders if this isn’t the greatest irony of all. The questions that people have for him, Harry can’t answer. The questions that he has for people, no one can answer.

At least, there’s that letter, though, a tiny bit of something that gives him hope, like the month of June against Ginny’s lips or that other letter, the one from his Mum that he found in Sirius’ stuff last year. That evening, before Harry makes it back to The Burrow, he raids the local Tesco and buys enough chocolate bars to make up for at least of third of Cadbury’s 1998 profit margins.

As is to be expected, the moment he Apparates back in Ottery Saint Catchpole, his return is not as _peaceful_ as he would have liked. He’s only just landed when noise starts rising all around him. George’s voice shouts back at the house. ‘He’s _here,_ he’s here!’ Harry opens his eyes and his best friend’s brother is glaring at him, arms crossed over his chest, obviously in charge of the surveillance of The Burrow’s Apparition spot. ‘You’re in for an earful,’ he says, the moment his look lands on Harry. ‘Mum’s -’

Ron comes charging at them before George manages to finish his sentence. There is an anger that Harry’s rarely seen burn in his best friend’s eyes and his wand is aimed high while Hermione, Ginny and Mrs Weasley all run after him in various states of disarray. Hermione’s hair is wild and her eyes red. ‘Ron,’ she shouts, but Ron’s quicker, screams at Harry.

_‘_ Alarte Ascendare!’

‘Protego!’

The force of Harry’s shield charm sends Ron flying ten feet back into the grass but the moment he gets back up, Harry sees that his best mate is ready to have another go at him. Both Mrs Weasley and Hermione have to physically restrain Ron. ‘I’m going to bloody kill you!!’ he shouts and, in the commotion that Harry’s return seems to have generated, Harry figures that Disapparating off to the other side of the country without telling anybody where he was going probably wasn’t the idea of the century. It’s a good hour before Ron consents to stop making death threats and while she lets Harry into the house, Mrs Weasley throws him a very stern look as she tells him that Kingsley was about to send Aurors out looking for him. Harry thinks he might actually die from embarrassment. The words ‘disappeared off for hours,’ and: ‘so bloody worried,’ and: ‘you could have died,’ seem to fall from plenty of people’s lips that evening. He looks to his feet in contrition for a number of minutes until the whole tumult finally abates. Thinks he really needs to move out soon.

At the dinner table, it seems that Ginny’s the only one who’s not glaring at Harry with more than a mild degree of annoyance on her face. It’s kind of a nice reprieve until she says: ‘I knew you’d turn up eventually,’ and shrugs as she pours herself a cup of tea. ‘It’s just what you do. You run off and don’t think of anyone else.’

It stings, almost physically (because, all things considered, it’s probably true), takes the words out of his mouth – for a moment, he just stays quiet, unsure what to say. ‘Where were you, anyway?’ Mrs Weasley glares at him, later, and he looks down to his feet, studies the rust-coloured tiles of The Burrow’s kitchen.

‘Godric’s Hollow,’ he admits, barely above a whisper. Suddenly, all stares are on him. At least, Mrs Weasley’s tone has softened a bit when she finally speaks again.

‘Oh, Harry, dear, you should have told us,’ she tells him, pulls him into a warm hug.

That night, Ginny and he each have a shot of firewhiskey in her bedroom. It’s the first night where he just falls asleep next to her without sex being involved. She says she’s too mad at him to ‘just give you what you boys want,’ and he keeps his mouth shut about what he told Hermione, about actually wanting more than sex, about it all being _complicated –_ about everything. It’s been a week since they last saw each other so he still lies in her bed and holds her in the dark, feeling the touch of her skin against his. ‘To your mum,’ she toasts, in the dark. She takes a bite out of his chocolate bar, chews and shakes her head to herself a bit. ‘Who inexplicably seemed to love these Muggle treats.’

Harry laughs, glance finding hers. The next morning, on the wireless, some Healer who pretends to be an expert in “people who have dealt with that kind of thing” and tells the world that: ‘Well, if you want my two cents, I’d say Potter’s not talking because he’s traumatised. I mean, who can blame him?’

Ginny makes a dramatic entrance at the breakfast table, slumps down next to Harry and steals a sip from his tea. ‘Ugh, more milk?’ she breathes quickly before she hears the radio and barks back at it. ‘Merlin, of _course_ , he’s bloody traumatised you fucking idiot! We all are.’

‘Ginny, language,’ is all that Mr Weasley says in response.

Harry, as per usual these days, doesn’t know what to say, so he chooses to say nothing. 

By the end of June, the Commission for the Investigation into the Second Wizarding War as mandated by the current Minister for Magic, Mr Kingsley Shaklebot, recommends, amongst other things, that the lot of them be given awards. Everyone who fought in the battle gets an Order of Merlin - Hermione, Ron and he get First Class. Through the entire ceremony, Harry feels sick to his stomach - ‘I’m not sure what I ate,’ he tells Hermione – she’s smart and eloquent when she speaks at the podium in his place.

‘You all have behaved to an unbelievable standard of bravery,’ Kingsley tells them as he pins the award onto their robes and a few hundred people applaud. ‘And for that, we are grateful.’

Ron keeps his and looks at it from time to time, his wand lit up in the middle of the night, the metal of the medal in its box reflecting a low glow past the large grin on his face. ‘Wicked, isn’t it?’

Harry exchanges a smile with his best friend, nods and pats him on the back. ‘You deserve it,’ he says. ‘A hundred times over, mate.’

Hermione hopes to show it to her parents, one day. She hopes that it will help them _understand,_ understand why she did what she did, why it mattered, even though they never seemed to truly get why it rested on their seventeen-year-old daughter’s shoulders to save the wizarding world. ‘I’ll tell them he was kind of like Hitler, I think.’ Harry nods, silent, still.

He throws his own medal in the river that runs through Ottery St Catchpole, one weekend afternoon, before either of them can stop him.

May 1998, to him, is a blur. A blur of firewhiskey and tears at The Burrow. Yet, he thinks Ginny was right about June. It’s a good month, full of long evenings and hope.


	3. out of bricks (off the wall)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Life update - I did not do Nanowrimo, this just took ages to write. I killed so many darlings and binned so many scenes to get here, but sure look, there it is. The chapter isn't the happiest, to be honest, but I think after everything that they've gone through, there's no way it wouldn't get worse before getting better, so to speak. These kids have been at war and need time to heal.
> 
> I'm trigger-warning this chapter for a self-harm-y scene towards the end, and general themes of depression/PTSD. In terms of inspo, the title is taken from a Peaky Blinders quote ("If you apologise once, you do it again and again and again. Like taking bricks out of the wall of your fucking house") and I've also borrowed and tweaked another line from the show in reference to "sex, freedom, and whiskey sours." I've also taken a few elements from a fic by dirgewithoutmusic called "Turncoats: In defence of Andromeda Tonks" which IMHO is the best thing to have ever been written on this fandom. Also, go and grab yourself a cuppa because for the love of God, my wordcount is at 14,108.
> 
> Thank you so much for all your lovely comments as always, they truly make my day.

_ iii. out of bricks (off the wall) _

When summer rolls in, that year, it fits in like a puzzle, pieces neatly organised, shaping angles and corners before slowly closing in on the middle. May was a blur; June felt like hope. July and August are a series of events that can only, possibly lead to one consequence. It’s a shame that Harry doesn’t see it coming, doesn’t figure it all out before it’s too late. He sits on the couch of his brand-new, London apartment and Hermione’s weight shifts next to him, her feet flat against the floor.

‘Ginny told me,’ she says.

It occurs to him that there are words that he could say but Harry’s grown tired of explaining himself, lately, wants someone else to tell a story, for once, or show him where he went wrong, where good intentions blew the bricks off the walls. The summer of ’98 is, overall, the one during which he starts drinking, seriously pissing people off and in which the straw finally ( _finally_ ) breaks the camel’s back. 

It doesn’t start badly. In fact, it’s quite the opposite: his summer, that year, starts with Teddy. On one of the very last days of June, Andromeda decides to go back to work and Harry jumps at the opportunity to spend more time with him. They figure out a schedule that works for the both of them and he gets to watch his godson while his grandmother is busy saving people in St Mungo’s, changes him, feeds him bottled milk and sits on the carpet of his room when he sleeps. The 12-week milestone is an odd one: Teddy starts laughing. Like: laugh out loud, belly laughs when his toys make sounds as he moves, or when Harry picks him up from his cot. He begins mimicking facial expressions as well as hair colours and maybe, that’s just the thing that forces them all to smile more.

That summer, the Order of the Phoenix is dissolved. Its official purpose has become moot. As they were never properly joined in, Harry, Ron and Hermione attend the last meeting as ‘esteemed guests.’ Molly half-heartedly attempts to keep Ginny out due to her age, but even McGonagall seems to argue against it. Harry has too much to drink, becomes silent and maudlin, almost Sirius-like, thinking of the picture he once held in his hands of the people in their ranks, left decimated by the first war. The aftermath of the second is not much different.

That night, Hagrid praises him for saving the world, being brave, beating Voldemort at his own game - all the bizarrely heroic things that have made it onto the front pages. Since Harry refused to engage with the Commission last month, the version of events that he initially gave Kingsley is still the one that stands, bearing as little details about the events of the battle as is possible. The Horcruxes (none of which ever crawled under Harry’s skin) have all been destroyed, the Hallows never existed and Harry dodged Voldemort’s killing curse at the last minute. It’s a tale that he finds that he likes, as Dedalus Diggle raises his glass (‘Aye! Aye!’) in response to Hagrid’s words and Hestia Jones smiles, politely embarrassed next to him. Harry feels Hermione’s gaze on them from the other side of the table, though, and her voice suddenly comes back to haunt his thoughts. ‘You didn’t dodge the curse, Harry,’ she said. He tries his hardest to push that truth away. ‘You told everyone a half-baked lie about what happened in the forest and I’m not sure that will hold up in court. They’ve caught some of the Death Eaters. They saw you dead. They’ll say what they saw.’ _Well,_ Hagrid could say what he saw, too, except -

‘Didn’ see it meself,’ he says, then, quieter, and to Harry alone. Like something to be ashamed of. ‘Couldn’ look, Harry. Had me eyes closed.’

So, Hagrid saw nothing and Hermione lets out a sigh of relief. She nods at Harry like another crisis has just been averted.

By a unanimous vote of those in attendance, the DA later decides to remain in action. There is a world to rebuild and kids who want to keep their minds busy. They become the Conspicuous Army for the Support and Help of Children Of War with an acronym that is, indeed, intentional. Before she goes to Australia, Hermione helps them file in the paperwork with the Ministry, turning the group into an official charitable organisation. Luna’s secretary (the minutes are _interesting_ , to say the least), Neville’s the Chair (a born leader) and Ginny, as she puts it, handles funds that seem to come in from _mysterious_ sources. Harry snorts and claims that he doesn’t know what she’s talking about but as treasurer, she later reports an _anonymous_ donation of ten thousand Muggle pounds coming into the organisation’s bank account the day after it goes live, and no one is fooled.

For Hogwarts, they round up an army of volunteers to help McGonagall and the professionals she’s hired for rebuilding. Harry doesn’t go, can’t imagine facing the castle and the destruction again, so he writes another cheque to ease his guilt. It occurs to him that perhaps, he’s becoming the kind of person who throws money at problems but then again, it feels like there isn’t that much else he can do about it. Ginny doesn’t go either – she says she’s too busy with Quidditch – but she does attend every single one of the DA’s weekly meetings, hosted by Hannah Abbott who got a summer job at the Leaky Cauldron. More often than not, she comes back to Harry an odd mix of happy and sad, but mostly flirty. 

Their relationship stays the way it is, for the most part, that summer, and _that_ makes him happy. They snog and shag, and don’t talk about the war, or about what will happen when she goes back to Hogwarts in September. Perhaps, they don’t need to. Sometimes, Harry gets mesmerised by the look on her face that feels like she just _understands,_ understands how he doesn’t have the words for most of it, how his life has spiralled into that of someone else, that of a bloke who the papers write about, a wizard called Harry Potter who became a hero when he vanquished the Dark Lord. Whoever that guy is, he’s not Harry – just Harry.

“Just Harry” is a kid, that summer, a kid with a war in his head. A kid who develops avoidance strategies to get through the days, with laughter, wet, hot kisses and battles of limbs with the girl he loves. Once, Ginny pins him down on her bed and teases him, her lips and teeth steadily trailing over his skin. When he tries to move his fingers up her hips, she grabs his hands and leaves them joined above his head, tied up by the scrunchie that used to hold her hair. Ginger, golden strands cascade down around them and her mouth slowly ( _very_ slowly) moves down his chest. There is a moment, a moment like the ones he sometimes has when he closes his eyes at night (he _tries_ not to sleep, still), where he thinks about the last time someone tied his hands up. They’d just uttered a forbidden word and the Snatchers were at their side, took them to Malfoy Manor, and –

‘Hey,’ Ginny’s voice is soft, suddenly, her chocolate-brown eyes boring into his. It’s late; the night is dark outside. Harry forces the thoughts out of his head – his smile is fake but they don’t _talk,_ so he respects the rules. ‘I lost you there for a second,’ Ginny observes. He rises up to kiss her.

‘Not a chance,’ he counters. Thinks the only way she’d ever lose him would be if she wanted to.

Her parents find out about them, that summer, and that’s another thing that leaves him feeling a bit odd, like this is the end of an era and the start of another. Harry supposes that the constant state of alert that he was in for the past couple of months couldn’t possibly last forever and sure enough, over the first week of July, the penny drops. Between Ginny and her mother, it ends in a shouting match right in the middle of the Weasleys’ kitchen. ‘You’re spending a lot of time with Harry,’ Mrs Weasley observes, diplomatically, except diplomacy is, frankly, neither woman’s strong suit. The matter escalates into a loud row and Ginny decides to go all in, throws _everything_ into her mother’s face. Words like ‘shagging,’ and ‘blowjob,’ and ‘of course, we’re using protection Mum, do you think I’m stupid?’ fall out of her mouth in a loud, shout-the-house-down, teenage, provocative tone; Harry wonders (not for the first time) if it is, indeed, possible to die from embarrassment. The girl he loves eventually runs out into the garden and Mrs Weasley chases after her. _‘Where do you think you’re going, young lady?’_

Their yells seem to echo in the entire neighbourhood. 

‘I’m going to Luna’s! At least, _she_ ’ll understand!’

Harry’s not sure what there is to _understand,_ to be honest, but he keeps his mouth shut throughout the afternoon, goes upstairs to pack his bags. His conversation with Mr Weasley, that evening, is much quieter.

‘I’ll move out tonight,’ he just says. Has yet to find a flat in London but supposes he can move into a Muggle hotel in the meantime.

‘Harry -’

‘I’m really sorry, Mr Weasley. I’ll be -’

‘Harry, for Merlin’s sake, will you let me speak?’

Strangely enough, it seems that: ‘It’s what kids _do_ ,’ Mr Weasley articulates. Molly and he are ‘very angry and disappointed,’ he explains. Harry looks down at his shoes, still wonders if he should just leave now, spare the both of them the embarrassment of having to go through the motions. ‘Ginevra is not of age and regardless, I think we would have expected a bit more honesty from the both of you.’ There is a glass of firewhiskey in his hand; he sets it down on the coffee table. ‘But, we had seven children, you know? To be honest, I always felt that it was more likely that we’d have to deal with issues of underage sex, at some point, rather than have them all fight in a war -’

Against all odds, Harry does not get kicked out of the house, that evening. Instead, Mr Weasley actually asks him to _stay_ and they chat about other things for a bit, wait for Ginny to tentatively tiptoe back into the house around midnight, desperately trying to go unnoticed. Mr Weasley sits them both down with a stern frown on his face and gives a very severe-sounding lecture about sex, boundaries, consent and honesty. The “kids” remain silent for the most part; Harry’s so uncomfortable that he wishes he could disappear into a hole but even that isn’t as bad as he imagined it would be. The Weasleys seem to love him, still, surprisingly. ‘Obviously, Ginny,’ Mr Weasley says, towards the end of his speech, looking directly at his daughter. ‘We would have _preferred_ for all of this to happen once you were of age and your mother has explicitly asked me to request that you refrain from –’

Before he even finishes his sentence, Ginny opens her mouth to protest.

‘ _But,’_ Mr Weasley interrupts, putting his hand up. ‘ _I_ personally remember what it is like to be young and _infatuated_ , let’s say, so I _suppose_ that as long as you promise to be safe and respect each other – both of you – I _could_ turn a blind eye on the things that I don’t see…’

They promise. Swear up and down, and back and forth, cross my heart, promise, thanks Mr Weasley, goodnight, Mr Weasley.

Of course, Ginny’s brothers are a different matter. To tell the truth, it’s the first thing that truly annoys Harry, that summer. He gets various pointed glares and thinly veiled threats for days after the incident which wouldn’t be as much of an issue, to be honest, if _Ron_ wasn’t also part of their gang. Harry supposes that he’s learnt to deal with people’s open displays of active dislike quite well, by now, but experiencing it coming from his best mate is an entirely more frustrating experience. Every time the topic is raised between them, Ron lets out outraged exclamations like: ‘she’s my sister!’ and, ‘I knew you’d gotten back together but, _ew_ , everything she said, just thinking about it, it’s disgusting!’

It is Friday when Harry just throws the towel in, rolls his eyes and blurts out: ‘Don’t bloody think about it, then!’ When Ron doesn’t respond right away, eyes open wide in shock, Harry takes advantage of the silence to drive his point home. ‘Look, I don’t know why she did that, okay?’ he just says, honest, arms crossed over his chest. ‘Do you think I _wanted_ her to shout out intricate details about our sex life in the middle of everything? I _didn’t_ , but I do love her,’ he adds, shrugs. ‘So, that’s that, really.’

And for a bit after that, Ron just _stares._ Harry counts the seconds, tries to find something to focus his gaze on. When Ron does open his mouth, he thinks that he’s in for another string of invasive questions about the fact that he’s just accidentally admitted to being in love with his sister but instead, Ron plops himself down onto his bed and picks up on the one thing that Harry didn’t think of when he spoke. ‘Reckon she just wanted attention,’ he says. Harry gives him a confused look. ‘Ginny, I mean. Reckon she just wanted attention. You know, Mum and Dad, usually, they’d have been all over this the moment we came back from Hogwarts,’ he adds, catches Harry’s gaze. ‘It’s not like you were being very discreet about it, even _I_ had an inkling. But it took them months to bring it up and I reckon maybe that’s why Gin said all these things. Maybe, she just wanted Mum to get angry, to care, like things had gone back to normal.’

_Normal_ is an interesting concept _,_ Harry thinks. Reckons there isn’t much else to say to that, so again (again, _again)_ he says nothing.

Overall, Ginny is the only person who doesn’t seem to be at least a little bit annoyed with him, that summer. Her family is grappling with their relationship, Hermione keeps looking at him like he’s about to crash straight into a wall and the rest of the wizarding community frankly isn’t particularly happy with the Chosen One’s desire not to explain himself in front of their Commission. Alternatively, they call him: traumatised, a hero, a madman, an arrogant prick, a saviour – it’s all a bit schizophrenic. The good thing about it is that it refocuses the attention onto him, meaning that Ron and Hermione get to prepare their trip to Australia relatively unbothered. The annoying thing is: for Harry, the entire wizarding world is still taped off as a no-go zone.

Kingsley shows up at The Burrow once or twice at the start of July, mostly to chat with Ron and Hermione about their upcoming trip. On top of going to fetch her parents, the Ministry is hoping that they will agree to meet with the local government in Australia, be the poster people for a healing, post-war Britain. ‘There’s no sugar-coating this, we’re about a billion Galleons into debt,’ he explains, one afternoon. Harry can’t even intellectually comprehend how much money that is. ‘The war’s tanked our economy, destroyed our infrastructure and the Muggle PM won’t lend us a Knut, even though we’re part of his own country _,’_ he sighs. ‘Without international loans, we’ll go bankrupt before the end of the year.’

Hermione seems to consider the request but doesn’t accept right away. She claims that she needs time to think, that she really intended this trip to be about herself and her parents, isn’t sure how she can help. To Harry, it looks like she’s just buying time. He does the same thing every time Kingsley asks him about the Aurors, so he knows what it looks like.

Her hesitation isn’t like his, though. It’s not born out of doubt. ‘Of course, I’ll do it,’ she tells him in confidence, like it’s the most obvious decision in the world. ‘It’s the right thing to do. I’ve just asked for something else in return.’

Harry soon learns that, using their trip to Australia as a bargaining chip, Hermione’s asked Kingsley to make use of his sizable ministerial influence to convince McGonagall to budge on Hogwarts boarding rules. Seemingly unrelated, the two topics have found an odd connection in the Ministry’s need for Hermione’s help with trans-national matters, and her own desire to commute back and forth between London and Scotland next year, whenever she pleases. ‘We’re adults, now,’ she argues, ‘and there’s no reason - _academically_ or otherwise - that seventh-year students be forced to remain in the castle outside of classroom hours.’ Harry reckons that she’s finally accepted the idea that Ron and he will not be heading back to Hogwarts, so he supposes that she needs to find another solution to keep seeing her “ _boyfriend_.”

(They’re together, Harry knows. He’s genuinely happy for them but the concept is still a bit odd.)

Over the last few weeks, Harry’s scoffed and laughed every time she’s brought the idea of a Hogwarts compromise up. He’s _convinced_ that it will never work, can’t imagine Minerva McGonagall bending rules on, well, _anything._ This is why initially, it’s not at all surprising when Kingsley comes back with bad news: ‘Minerva still thinks you ought to board during the week. Both for academic purposes and for the cohesion of the student body. I don’t think she’ll budge on that,’ he says. Hermione lets out a heavy sigh, but then he holds his hand up and adds: ‘I did get you weekends, though.’

Harry’s mouth drops before anybody else can respond. ‘ _What?_ ’

A sweet, pink-tinted film materialises before his eyes: Ginny and he moving in together in an apartment in London, spending their days going to museums and cuddling every weekend, going to the Muggle cinema, eating in restaurants, drinking in pubs, living their lives on a wonderful, fluffy cloud of bliss. The film bears the colour of love, smells of treacle tart, broomstick handle and Ginny’s flowery shampoo. For a second, he almost forgets that Ginny will have Quidditch, too. _Shit_ , he thinks. Quidditch. Perhaps they could work it out, compromise on every other weekend? It would still be better than not seeing her for four long, winter months.

Hermione smirks. ‘Well, I see you’re a lot less sceptical about the whole thing _now,_ Harry.’

After dinner, Kingsley pulls him aside. Annoyance number two, Harry notes. They step out into the garden; it’s the only place where you can have privacy in the house, these days. ‘You’re going to _have_ to give a press interview at some point, Harry,’ the Minister simply tells him. ‘You know that, right?’

Silent, Harry just rolls his eyes. Ever since his no-comment interview, faced with his lack of response to their enquiries, the press have gradually been making wilder and wilder assumptions about his mental state. He hasn’t been seen in any formal or public capacity since the award ceremony (and even then, Hermione’s the one who spoke) so the Daily Prophet has decided that this is because, deeply traumatised and psychologically unstable due to the war, The Boy Who Lived has been living like a recluse, refusing to get out of his bedroom at The Burrow, surviving on beans on toast for the last two months. They say that his hair is long and that he hasn’t shaved in months and has (overall) completely lost his mind. This is only partially true: while Harry _will_ admit to voluntarily leaving the stubble at his cheeks grow for a few days, which he imagines may be the basis for these rumours, it’s only because Ginny calls it “gruff and sexy.” In her mouth, those words just do weird things to his stomach.

‘Oh, don’t shoot the messenger, Harry. Remus would have told you the same thing,’ Kingsley shrugs, pauses in his speech. Harry looks away, at a gnome hanging out in the tall grass at the other end of the property line. He briefly wonders if it’s the same gnome he stared at, that time Scrimgeour came around. ‘You can’t just stay here and run away from the world forever, you know?’

Now that Lupin is being brought into this, it’s only really a half-joke when he responds, laughs: ‘Why not? I’m _The Boy Who Lived_ , I thought I could do anything.’

Around mid-July, Harry finally (finally) finds a flat. _That,_ at least, is another piece of good news. Objectively, it’s perhaps not the best he’s viewed: it’s small and has paint that’s a bit cracked at the ceiling but after a good three weeks spent illegally Apparating all over the London in the hopes of finding someone ( _anyone)_ who will let him sign a lease without being eighteen, having a job or anyone to co-sign, he’ll take what he can get.

The place is in Muggle London, which has the added advantage of knowing that the press won’t come here looking for him. More importantly, though, despite its faults: Harry _likes_ it. It’s a studio with a mezzanine acting as a separate bedroom, top floor of an old Georgian house, a fifteen-minute walk from Grimmauld Place. It’s bright, south-facing, with high, tall windows that make it feel like the city is at his feet, open, just waiting to be explored. The ground floor apartment is rented out by a fashion student in her first year at uni; she’s got chocolate-brown skin and a loud, distinctive laugh that resonates up the walls. She’s put potted heathers out on her windowsill, nods and smiles at Harry every time she sees him.

The other occupants on the middle floor are a couple, wife or girlfriend looking about sixteen months pregnant – Harry supposes that they’ll move out soon for something bigger than their one-bedroom. When he meets them, Ginny, Hermione, Ron and he are in the midst of dragging his stuff up the stairs after a somewhat eventful trip to a blue and yellow Muggle furniture shop that was clearly designed by the same people who created the maze of the TriWizard tournament, and Harry introduces everybody but himself. ‘My best mates, Hermione and Ron,’ he says, the both of them shaking the couple’s hand. ‘And -’ he looks at Ron, quick, then thinks: _oh, what the hell._ ‘My girlfriend, Ginny.’ She tenses a bit but thankfully, Ron said nothing.

The lady is kind when she asks: ‘And, you are, sorry?’

He smiles, almost giggles to himself, realises that it’s been years since he’s met anyone who hasn’t read his name spelt out in the scar on his forehead. ‘Oh, I’m Harry. Sorry.’

Later that evening, Ginny stays over after the others have left, sits on his couch with her feet propped up on an empty cardboard box. When Harry goes to make tea, he plugs the kettle in and flicks the switch. She laughs. He could listen to her laugh all day, he thinks.

‘Are you trying to live like a Muggle, Potter?’ she chuckles.

He laughs in return but frankly wonders if that would be so bad.

That summer, London becomes an endless source of entertainment for the both of them. She hangs out at his whenever he’s not at Andromeda’s watching Teddy and even Mrs Weasley seems to gush over the fact that Harry sometimes wears suits when he takes her daughter out on proper dates, now. Ron and Hermione finally grab their Portkey to Australia over the third week of July and Harry begins his alone time by touring the city, enjoying the good weather whenever he can. He wears jeans and t-shirts, survives on burgers and chips, and finds that in London, there are pubs and restaurants everywhere, and museums, and plays, and record shops, and gigs, and everything a human could possibly want. He _loves_ being there.

When on his own, he walks miles and miles around the city, spends hours strolling through Hyde Park, the markets in Camden Town, the government buildings in Westminster, Soho. When Ginny’s there, they visit Muggle landmarks. The British Museum, the new Aquarium on the quays, St Paul’s, the Tower of London. He kisses her. Everywhere. On the couch in his new flat, in the middle Trafalgar Square, in the restaurants where they stop on the way. He supposes that _yes,_ they should be more careful. That _yes,_ they could run into Death Eaters at any given time, but freedom is a treat that tastes sweet, now impossible to relinquish.

It is startling how easy life is when he’s with her. They sit at the table of a café one afternoon, sharing a scone, and he remembers the painful awkwardness of his first date with Cho, the tears and the grief. Ginny makes him laugh, giggles and throws a few crumbs at his face when she realises he’s not listening to her. It is something of the few weeks they had in Hogwarts during his sixth year, except that their world now extends well beyond castle grounds.

On his birthday, they Apparate to the middle of nowhere and go for a fly, have a picnic dinner on the banks of a lake. ‘I want this forever,’ she says. ‘Promise me. You, me – nothing else.’

He kisses her with his response, lets his fingers trail through her silky hair. Ginny’s smile is large and so is his, and Harry thinks that maybe this is what the summer of ’98 is about: smiles and promises.

On _her_ birthday, he teaches her to ride a bike. Not something the Dursleys taught how him to do (obviously), but his primary school had a mandatory road safety course so, at least, that’s one Muggle skill Harry did pick up in his early years. Ginny gives a couple of little yelps once or twice, laughs as he struggles to run next to her, hanging on to the saddle. ‘You’re terribly out of shape, Potter,’ she giggles (skin and bones, he still is) and tries to charm the bike into compliance because she can do magic, now, she keeps reminding him, she’s _seventeen._ By the end of the afternoon, they both end up with scraped knees as well as stomachs that hurt from laughing too much and overall, it is quite a success. Ginny soon figures out that the faster she goes, the more stable she is, so she decides to deal with the problem by just speeding downhill like a madwoman without using the breaks, barely avoids collision with a fifty-something Muggle man who just happened to be there, in the wrong place at the wrong time.

‘Wow, wow, young lady, careful there,’ the man laughs as Ginny brakes with the soles of her shoes and narrowly avoids him. She goes a bit red in the cheeks, quickly apologises, explains that she’s learning. The man smiles and adds: ‘Oh, at your age? That’s very brave of you.’

‘I wanted to tell him you’d fought in a war,’ Harry admits, later. They’re sitting on the grass on Primrose Hill with a bottle of wine and a bag of curry chips. Ginny licks a bit of sauce off her fingers before she looks up – Harry’s not sure that she knows how mesmerising that is to him.

‘Well, I’m glad you didn’t,’ she says. ‘I don’t want to think about the war ever again, to be honest.’

_You can’t help thinking about it in your sleep, though,_ he almost says (wants to say), but doesn’t. Often, when he’s next to her, she wakes up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat and although he’s not _sure,_ although he’s never asked her before, he sometimes wonders if she still dreams of Tom Riddle the way he does. Every night, the darkest wizard of all time is in Harry’s head, letting him die alone in a forest. Every morning, he wakes up and pretends that it wasn’t real.

‘Just kiss me, Harry,’ Ginny says, then, and he does. In the end, there is always a physical sense of intimacy in her presence that seems to rob him of his words.

That Thursday, when Andromeda comes home from work, she asks him for a favour. ‘I have a guest coming in on Saturday,’ she says, pours herself a glass of wine. It leaves a slight tint at the corner of her lips. ‘Do you mind watching Teddy?’

Harry smiles, shakes his head. Of _course_ , he doesn’t mind watching Teddy. Teddy is the most perfect thing to have ever walked this Earth, as far as his godfather is concerned, and this even though the little one has yet to actually walk. He’s a light shone through the mountains of pain and grief that have stalked them these last few months. Even on the rare occasions that he does cry, Harry feels like holding him, loving him, is the one and only thing he was born to do. So, no, he doesn’t mind, even offers Andromeda to take him to London for the weekend except -

‘No.’ Her response is oddly quick. ‘I’d rather you stay here. Just in case -’ she starts, stops, taps her nails against the stem of her glass. ‘In case something goes wrong.’

Her _sister_ is the guest in question, she later admits. ‘I’m not sure what she wants,’ Andromeda adds, ‘but if I try to kill her, I’ll need you to stop me.’

Harry laughs, warns her that he may not be the right man for the job. ‘I once asked her son if she always had that look like she’d just smelled dung or if it was only caused by his presence.’

It is probably an actual minute before Andromeda stops laughing, after that. It’s something that Harry’s noticed about her: hatred for their respective families seems to have left them with a similar sense of humour. It always seems to leave the people around them puzzled, that they’ve seen so much death and can still laugh, the both of them.

‘Well, you’re the only one I have, Harry, so you’ll have to do.’

Thank Merlin that Hermione is still in Australia, Harry thinks, or else she’d definitely have pointed out what a bad idea this was from the start.

The next day, Harry owls Kingsley for information about the Malfoys. He’s not quite sure what he’s after but it is bizarre how little he’s thought about them, to tell the truth, since the war ended. There’s just been about a million things on his mind and somehow, this ended up at the very (very) bottom of the priority list. Through the Minister’s quick response, Harry finds out that Draco and Lucius were arrested and taken straight into Azkaban pending their court dates, being both branded with the Dark Mark. Narcissa is under house arrest, a 24/7 Auror surveillance detail monitoring her every move. The authorisation to visit her sister was one granted by Kingsley himself.

From his jail cell, Lucius has apparently been making a lot of noise, arguing that the family was manipulated into having their house become Voldemort’s headquarters. Draco’s been quieter, from what Harry understands, though Andromeda says that he’s been writing to her somewhat regularly, and that he’s decided to turn down his father’s offer for joint representation. Selected a different set of lawyers to defend himself, in an attempt to put some distance with his parents. Narcissa’s written to Harry a number of times ( _that_ he knows), except he’s thrown all of her correspondence in the bin without opening it, so he’s not _sure_ what she was trying to say. He gets an inkling that they were littered with yet another round of empty excuses. 

‘What time is she coming?’ he asks, that Saturday. He and Andromeda are having tea in her kitchen while the baby sleeps upstairs. It’s the calm before the storm.

‘I’d say 3:15.’ Harry watches as she fiddles with a paper towel, folding it and unfolding it between her fingers. ‘I said three, so she’ll be fashionably late.’

She is. When they hear her knock on the door, Harry escapes upstairs and for an hour or so, he thinks he might just get away with hiding out, making no noise and pretending that he doesn’t exist. With Teddy, he plays pick-a-boo in Tonks’ old room and watches as her baby animatedly points at the different Muggle posters on the walls, smiles as Harry reads out the writings on them. They’re all from the Muggle films that Ted and she used to enjoy. Andromeda once told Harry that they used to go to the cinema together at least once a month, eat popcorn and vigorously dissect the pictures’ merits until late into the night. The last one they’d seen as a family before Ted had to go into hiding was _Men in Black_ which she says made Tonks laugh to tears. 

That afternoon, though, things do not go as planned. Around four, Teddy gets hungry. Harry tries to distract him for as long as he can, knowing that Narcissa’s still downstairs with her sister but the idea of a child being starved, albeit for a few minutes, is still unbearable enough to him that his resolve really doesn’t hold long. Harry quickly picks the little one up, trekking to the kitchen for a bottle.

Andromeda’s house is modern, open-plan with bare, soft, black and white, Scandinavian aesthetics. It is everything that Harry imagines the Black house wasn’t: warm, spacious and airy. The moment he makes it to the bottom of the stairs, he has a direct, unobstructed view into the open kitchen and dining room area, spots Teddy’s grandmother right away, sitting on a chair at the end of a long, glass table, an untouched mug of tea in front of her. The tension is palpable; Narcissa sits at her side, pale, tired, hair pulled back in a low, conservative bun. She looks like she’s aged about ten years (but still looks like it smells of dung, Harry thinks). ‘Annie,’ she begs. ‘Please, listen to me, I need -’

But, the moment he walks in with Teddy in his arms, Narcissa stops talking. Straightens up. Stares, eyes wide and focused. Doesn’t say anything. Andromeda throws him a curious look; he supposes she hadn’t told her sister that _Potter_ was upstairs. 

‘He’s fine,’ Harry shrugs in response, nodding at Teddy in his arms. ‘Just hungry.’

Wordlessly, he takes Andromeda’s nod and tense smile as an invitation to step into the kitchen, sets out to work on Teddy’s meal. With his back to the table where the sisters are sat, Harry turns, balances Teddy at his hip and makes his way to the other side of Andromeda’s fancy, white marble kitchen island, starts pulling Teddy’s formula out of the top cabinet. Dosing powder for the bottle while facing the tiled wall, Harry can feel Narcissa Malfoy’s stare digging holes into his back but there is an odd sense of pride and determination in him that doesn’t want to give her the satisfaction of showing his annoyance. Out of the four of them, Teddy is the only one who really dares make a sound. He’s not crying, per se, just a bit moany and fussy, and: ‘Yeah, it’s coming, tiger,’ Harry whispers in his ear.

With the help of his wand and a few familiar tricks, Harry fills the bottle with water and mixes it into milk, his other arm safely supporting his godson. The little one’s learnt to support his head on his own about a week ago and that simple, silly milestone has oddly filled both Harry and Andromeda with the purest sense of pride. The first time he did it, ‘I can’t wait to teach him how to fly,’ Harry confessed and listened to her laugh, tiny wrinkles at the corner of her eyes.

‘Oh, Dora used to _love_ Quidditch,’ she said.

‘He’s really cute, Annie,’ Narcissa finally settles, now, breaking the silence, and Harry bites back a sarcastic smile and a: _oh, sorry, you meant Teddy?_ Something tells him that Narcissa might not appreciate his particular sense of humour, even though her sister does. ‘How old is he, now?’

They chitchat politely. ‘Four months,’ Andromeda says and Harry can’t help but count in his head. Four months since Teddy was born means three months since their worlds fell apart. His godson will have no memory of his parents, no memory of the sound of their voices, of Tonks’ hopeless clumsiness and of the kindness in Remus’ smile whenever someone mentioned James. Narcissa speaks again, mentions something about remembering Draco at that age, something about how this is the nice part, isn’t it? ‘Afterwards, they start teething, the poor things,’ she adds and as she talks, Harry almost (almost) physically feels his heart breaking.

There is a pause in her speech and neither Harry nor Andromeda choose to fill it. Instead, he stops shaking the bottle and casts a quick warming charm on it. (Teddy likes his milk on the warmer side, they’ve noticed.)

He’s about to leave the room again and go feed him upstairs when: ‘Can I hold him?’ Narcissa asks.

Harry looks up. She’s not asking _him_ , he realises, she’s asking her sister. Andromeda opens her mouth, about to respond - Harry knows he shouldn’t say anything, knows that he shouldn’t get involved, is just here to make Teddy’s food and leave but –

‘Not in a million years,’ he just says. He’d like to say that he said that without thinking but, to be honest, he really ( _really_ ) means it.

An icy gush of wind seems to blow through the room and suddenly, everything _stops._ Harry notices that instinctively, his grip around Teddy has grown stronger, both his hands secured around him and, ‘I won’t hurt him, you know?’ Narcissa smiles, speaks at him rather than to him, like he’s a silly, little, capricious teenager, like _I’ve-held-kids-before-and-I-won’t-drop-him_ , like that even begins to cover the problem. In a blink, Harry sees: Teddy’s grandparents held and tortured for information about him. Ted Tonks, murdered by Snatchers for being Muggle-born. Lupin and Tonks, _Teddy’s parents_ , and their lifeless bodies laid down on the cold, stone floors of the Great Hall. With a loud clink, he sets Teddy’s bottle down on Andromeda’s bare, marble worktop. 

‘You _killed_ his parents.’

‘Well, _I_ didn’t -’

‘Okay, _you_ let _your_ sister torture _my_ best friend inside _your_ bloody house.’ The words come out in a hiss, only because Harry doesn’t want to scare Teddy with a shouting match. At his neck, he feels blood pumping under his jaw, like he’s going to have to close his eyes on her face or else he _will_ have to scream. Something seems to be pulling his insides out and he secures a hand to the back of the little one’s head, as though attempting to shield him from his own words. ‘Carved the word “mudblood” into her _fucking_ arm _._ That specific enough for you?’

With his eyes closed, Harry holds Teddy tighter than he’s ever held him and, in his head, on the floor, Hermione lies dead in front of him. His breath catches in his throat; in a rush, he opens his eyes again to Narcissa’s light, cold smirk. She sets her jaw. ‘You know, I read the papers, Potter. Interesting tale you told them, isn’t it?’ she breathes. ‘Perhaps you should remember that I was in the forest, too, before you prevent me from holding my own niece’s son. Before Draco’s trial, as well. I do suppose you’d prefer I keep your secrets safe, wouldn’t you?’

And just like that, it becomes clear to Harry what her visit was about. The letters he threw in the bin, Andromeda’s face ( _Annie, please listen to me, I need -)_ and the trials this winter. Narcissa’s out to blackmail him, isn’t she? Her silence about the things that he didn’t tell the Commission, against his testimony. For the life of him, Harry doesn’t know what she was expecting when she cooked that plan up inside her brain but he’s a kid with a war in his head, that summer, so instead of giving in, he just _flips._ That’s how he explains it to Ron and Hermione later, anyway. ‘I don’t know,’ he says. ‘I just flipped. In less than a second, I had Teddy in one arm and my wand trained at her face in the other.’

The room goes quiet, then. Even Teddy stops babbling. He must feel it, Harry thinks, nestled against him: the drumming of his heartbeat, the adrenaline in his veins, the way his fingers wrap around his wand and do not shake. Harry ( _just Harry)_ plays pick-a-boo in his room and listens to his giggles like music in the night. _Harry Potter_ tortured Amycus Carrow because he’d spat in Minerva McGonagall’s face and _thinks_ he might just murder his great-aunt. Bizarrely, they now seem to be the same person.

‘If you touch him, I’ll kill you,’ he says, something dead and ruthless in the way that his look falls upon hers. ‘And, I’ve killed before. Perhaps, you should remember _that._ ’

‘I meant it,’ he tells Ron, one night, weeks later. Even without a wand, Harry knows, he’d have murdered her with his bare hands if he had to. ‘I said that with Teddy in my arms, and I still meant it.’ Violence, wars, are the last thing Harry would want his godson to be aware of and yet –

‘Mum killed Bellatrix,’ Ron just states in response. Their looks cross and Harry supposes that there is nothing to say to that, so he says nothing.

Predictably, Andromeda throws both of them out of the house, that afternoon. Disarms Harry with a simple flick of her wand and throws a glass of water in Narcissa’s face. Harry’s too stunned to do anything when she grabs Teddy from his arms and: ‘That’s _enough,_ both of you,’ she says. ‘ _You_ go back to where you came from,’ she glares at her sister and: ‘Harry, for Merlin’s sake, go get some fucking air.’ After she’s thrown him out onto the street and he’s almost broken his foot by shooting into a wall, he realises that he’d never ( _ever_ ) heard Andromeda swear before.

Harry spends the next two days apologising to her. Pretty soon comes to the conclusion that he’s fucked up, _badly,_ and sends letters, Patronuses - flowers, even – to Teddy’s grandmother’s house. ‘Please, don’t take Teddy away,’ are the first words out of his mouth when she finally ( _finally_ ) consents to see him again that Monday evening when she gets home from work. _Please, please, please, please, please, plea-_

‘Harry, I would _never,_ ’ she tells him. Her lips are tinted with wine again; she swallows heavily and smiles a sad smile, the kind of smile people have when they talk to him about his parents. She issues a warning. ‘I don’t know what she knows,’ she says, waves him off when he opens his mouth to explain, like she doesn’t want to know, either. ‘But, when I was sixteen, she swore she’d never tell our parents about Ted and me, and yet -’ she trails off with a slight slump of her shoulders. ‘I think you need to get that battleground out of your head, Harry.’

And people say that to him, that summer, sometimes subtly and sometimes not, but always like they don’t know how hard it is. How he doesn’t sleep at night, doesn’t know how to close his eyes and stop seeing his own blood spilling onto the floor, doesn’t know how to forget Tom Riddle’s face every time he finds himself lying on the grass. Last month, Hermione saw a love-bite that he left at Ginny’s neck and: ‘You’re playing with fire, Harry,’ she said. He looked at her and shook his head.

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

To tell the truth, he both did and didn’t, that day, and so when Andromeda lets him back into her house after he flips at Narcissa, Harry holds Teddy near, first, then holds Ginny second, after he gets home, shags her but lets confessions of love die before they reach his lips. Opens a new bottle of firewhiskey and lights a cigarette instead, because sex and alcohol are frankly the only two ways he’s found to achieve what his godson’s grandmother’s asked: to get the battleground out of his head.

That week, Ron and Hermione finally grab their Portkey home to England. Harry considers ( _considers_ ) telling them what happened with Narcissa, then, but he doesn’t. The words get stuck at the back of his throat and he thinks: _what for?_ It would just add to whatever the hell happened in Australia because the good news is that they did secure Kingsley’s loan (‘The Ministry is very grateful,’ he tells them) but Hermione’s parents never make it home with her.

The issue isn’t their memories, Harry’s told. They’ve been restored to their full extent and the Grangers have hugged their daughter tightly, said that they loved her, said that they _understood_ , even welcomed Ron with open arms and yet, they _still_ decided to stay in Melbourne. Hermione gets back to London silent and contemplative and they are _fine_ , they say - ‘Absolutely fine, darling,’ and yet, they don’t come home. Perhaps, that’s the worst part.

Hermione says: ‘I get it.’ She insists on it over a pint at the pub, one evening. Vaguely watches the Muggles at the table next to them – they’re all standing outside, in the warmth of the summer night and Ron’s arm hangs loosely at her waist, supportive and protective. ‘Their life is there, now,’ she adds, words slurring a bit. Her tone tells Harry that she _doesn’t_ “get it,” not at all. ‘I’m not really connected to their world, anymore, anyway,’ she shrugs. ‘I’ll see them at Christmas.’ It’s all very rational, very Hermione. ‘They even have mobile telephones, now,’ she adds, quickly glances at Harry. ‘Did you know that?’

_No,_ he shrugs. He didn’t.

And so, at the end of August, Hermione does what she does best: she keeps her mind busy. Attends DA meetings and fundraising events for C.A.S.H.C.O.W., spends her days nagging Ron about revision before his Auror training starts and fusses over Harry to try and force him to do _something_. ‘ _Any_ thing,’ she even argues, one morning. He’s meeting the both of them for breakfast at Grimmauld Place, before Ron and she head into Diagon Alley to pick up her school things.

‘Does Master Harry want another scone?’ Kreacher asks, music to Harry’s ears.

‘Just do _something,_ ’ Hermione ploughs on. ‘Honestly, Harry, go and sell goodies at Borgin and Burkes for all I care.’

‘ _Goodies?’_

‘You know what I mean. You need _something_ to look forward to. A reason to get out of bed in the morning.’

And, because Ron’s in the shower, Harry deems it safe to give her a mock wink and casually point out: ‘I already have a reason to get out of bed in the morning, Hermione.’

‘Yeah? Spending your days shagging Ginny and playing tourist around town? What else have you been doing while we were gone, eh?’

‘Hey –’

Ron suddenly reappears, running down the stairs to meet them and for a moment, Harry thinks that (thankfully) this might mean the end of the conversation. That is until, however, he (politely, may he add – he hands the Galleons over to Ron and everything) asks them to pick up an owl for him.

To be honest, as much as it pains Harry to admit, he’s kind of recently come to the unavoidable conclusion that he needs to “replace” Hedwig. Or, if not “replace,” at least, well, fill her vacancy, so to speak. He didn’t want to, at first, but not having an owl of his own just makes wizarding communication a real nightmare, especially because he can’t just walk up to the post office in Diagon Alley whenever he needs to, for fear of being attacked by a crowd of reporters. So far, he’s managed alright by borrowing Pig from Ron when absolutely necessary, but with Ginny going back to Hogwarts in a couple of weeks, Harry figures that it just isn’t a viable solution, anymore.

Again, he can’t go into Diagon Alley, so it seems logical that Ron and Hermione could pick one up for him.

Ron shrugs, reaches for Harry’s money on the table. ‘Yeah, sure,’ he starts. ‘What kind do you -’

But then, Hermione barks.

By which Harry means: she _speaks_ but there’s really no other way to describe her tone. She just turns around, lays her coffee mug down on the kitchen counter (‘Oh, thank you, Kreacher,’) and _barks_ at Harry, pulling an elastic off her wrist and tying her hair up at the same time. ‘Harry James Potter, we are _not_ picking up an _owl_ for you! It’s a _pet,_ not a commodity! So, _you_ go to Diagon Alley, and _you_ face the bloody world, face your own grief over losing Hedwig and choose _your_ own bloody pet! I cannot _believe_ this,’ she finally breathes. ‘You can’t just live like this, Harry!’

And: ‘Like _what?_ ’ he shouts back. His tea mug moves as he slams a palm against the table and Ron jumps, steps closer to Hermione. ‘Like fucking what?’

For a moment, the room is silent around them. Harry looks at Ron, then looks at her, the three of them, and sighs. Lets his forehead fall against the back of his hand in front of him. _Fuck,_ he thinks. _Fuck._

‘Sorry,’ he says, quick. That’s new as well, he imagines, how fast he gets angry and how fast he apologises. Runs a hand across his face, straightens his glasses up. ‘I’m sorry,’ he sighs, again. ‘I haven’t slept.’

If he could just _sleep,_ he thinks. If he could just –

Ron lays a hand on his shoulder; Harry closes his eyes. ‘We’re just trying to help, mate.’

But then, Hermione brushes past the both of them. ‘Ron,’ she says. ‘Come on. We’ve got to go.’

She refuses to speak to Harry, after that. Ron says that she needs time, ‘with her parents and everything,’ but there’s a look on her face every time they cross paths like she doesn’t know what to say, anymore, or what to do to help. Harry isn’t quite sure what to do or say either, to be honest, so outside of watching Teddy, he spends most of the last two weeks of August with Ginny. Enjoys her presence while he can, before the summer ends and they have to part again, if only during the week. They spend their mornings lazing about in bed and their nights in pubs with live music; she drags him onto the dancefloor with gentle teases about his two left feet, does all the things that they wished they could do at Bill and Fleur’s wedding. There is a way in which she fits in his arms, fits in his life, like it could never be anyone else. She’s _the one_ , he’s pretty _sure_ , and he wants her to be _everything._ Like a new identity, like those couples who only exist with one another. He doesn’t want people to think of _Harry Potter,_ anymore. Just of _Harry and Ginny._

One night, he confesses: ‘I really like who I am when I’m with you,’ he tells her. _You and me forever,_ he thinks. She’s snuggled in at his side on the couch in his flat and Harry feels like they’re the truest words that have ever come out of his mouth. She smiles.

‘Well,’ she says. ‘I like who you are when you’re with me, too.’

It’s not _I love you,_ he thinks, but he sees it as pretty damn close. 

A few days later, though, unfortunately, another penny drops. Not one like when her parents found out about them, _no,_ a much more serious one, in hindsight, a much more destructive one. Around nine, that morning, Harry is awoken by the consistent tap of a bird’s beak against his window. He’s slept about two hours and when he finally rolls his eyes, gives in and slowly makes his way down the stairs of his mezzanine, he notices that the owl is a barred one, a Ministry breed, and frowns. At its paw is a simple, folded note, rather than a letter. It reads:

_Floo into my office directly, I’ve set up a secure connection. The Prophet is already in the Atrium. Do not talk to anyone. _

_Kingsley._

Immediately, Harry looks out the window. The first thing that occurs to him is: this is it. Someone’s ratted him out, the press’s figured out where he lives.

They haven’t, though. His street is quiet, eerily so, like it should be. On Sunday mornings, he’s found that people tend to sleep in.

He concludes that whatever it is, it mustn’t be _that_ serious. The owl flies away and for a moment, Harry actually briefly considers going back to bed. In rapid succession, though, his fireplace bursts alive and Ron tumbles out into his apartment, followed closely by Hermione. _He_ looks horrified. _She_ looks furious. Strolls the three steps that separate her from Harry and starts hitting him in the face with the Sunday edition of the Daily Prophet. The words that come out of her mouth with each smack as Ron tries to pull her away tell him everything that he needs to know.

‘ _Why. Did. You. Pick. A. Fight. With. Narcissa. Malfoy?’_

_Ah, fuck,_ Harry just thinks.

So, on Sunday, the 23rd of August 1998, Harry spends the day at the Ministry instead of blissfully wasting it away snogging Ginny in his apartment. Sits in Kingsley’s office while important officials use words like ‘comms,’ and ‘optics,’ and ‘damage control.’ Narcissa’s done things well; he’s got to give it to her. She didn’t just give the _Prophet_ her version of events (which, admittedly, would have been bad enough), she did so with ridiculous, thinly veiled accusations that just add even more flavour to her tales.

For example: she doesn’t say that Harry walked to his own death. She says: ‘Well, he did pass us in the forest but I’m not sure where he was going when he got caught. I suppose he _could_ have been running away, for all I know.’ The curse did hit him, that much is certain. She admits that he didn’t defend himself but adds: ‘You’d have to be pretty insane to do that, wouldn’t you? I mean, even if he wasn’t running, was he trying to kill himself? Would you want someone with these, er, _issues_ to have a prominent role in our world?’

At length, she talks about how he threatened her. ‘In my own sister’s kitchen, mind you. Oh, yes, I do worry about Teddy’s safety, I really do.’ She claims that if the Ministry wants to treat all those who fought in the war fairly, conducting equitable trials across the board, they should probably look into the things _he_ ’s done, too. ‘I mean, I don’t like it, but I _understand_ letting Granger and Weasley off the hook. After all, they paid their dues, signed an agreement and _engaged_ with our institutions. Potter didn’t. How can they let him off like this?’

In the end, Harry tells Kingsley the whole story. The _real_ story. He has to. Not only the one about what happened in Andromeda’s kitchen (why Narcissa Malfoy is so irritated with him, it seems) but also: Snape’s memories, the Horcrux inside him, the fear at the pit of his stomach, his parents’ ghosts and the Hallows. A stone-cold tale. Harry doesn’t cry or express any regrets, it just kind of is. He played with fire and lost, he guesses.

‘We’ll put out a statement,’ Kingsley settles. ‘We backed you up when you lied, so it makes _us_ look bad, too. I think it’s best if the Ministry takes this on, puts out the facts and rides out the storm. There’s going to be some very nasty things being said about you over the next few weeks, Harry.’ He pauses. ‘You’ll probably have to give an interview, perhaps when things have quieted down a bit. Explain why you lied.’

Kingsley blames himself, it seems: ‘Oh, I knew you weren’t telling the truth, Harry, I shouldn’t have -’ he says, and it seems odd, to Harry, because it was his own decision and no one else’s to keep things to himself. It’s not like Kingsley could ever have coerced the truth out of him, anyway and there are many reasons why he lied, not all of them noble. It just felt nice to believe in fiction for a little while, think he’d had a plan all along, one to outsmart Tom Riddle, dodge the curse and make him believe in inexistent Hallows. Nicer than the fact that he walked into a forest unarmed and did not expect to come back. ‘Sometimes, I forget how young you are,’ Kingsley just says and Harry doesn’t have the heart to tell him that they were never really kids, the lot of them, were they?

In the end, Harry just regrets that his life (and death) have now become public property. ‘I didn’t run,’ he insists, tells Kingsley, because, through everything, it’s somehow the only fact that matters. _You’ve been so brave,_ his mother said, didn’t she? And, _I didn’t run, I didn’t run, I didn’t –_

Kingsley almost laughs. ‘I know, Harry.’ He lets out a heavy sigh, sits against the angle of his desk. _You’re so young,_ again, his look says. Harry’s always hated these kinds of looks. ‘We all do,’ the Minister adds. ‘That’s kind of the issue.’

When Harry makes it home, that night, he finds Ginny in his living room. She looks almost as tired as he feels, dishevelled, dark circles under her eyes and her hair loose over her shoulders. He thinks that this is it: the moment when they’ll _talk,_ when she’ll decide that she hates him and leave. Instead, when she sees him, her mouth crashes against his and he can’t believe his luck. Suddenly, they’re not apart, anymore, and when he bites her lip; she lets out a loud moan – her fingernails dig into his back. They’re rough, that night, rougher than they’ve ever been before; she takes as much as she gives and they fuck against the wall of his flat with the windows open, her head hitting the frame of one of Luna’s paintings when she shouts out his name. ‘Make me forget, Harry,’ she whispers in his ear. ‘Please, make me forget everything I’ve read.’

The beauty of it is that _she_ almost makes _him_ forget everything he’s ever said, too.

‘Sex can’t be the answer to all of your problems, Harry,’ Hermione tries to reason with him, a couple days later. He’s standing with his back to her, facing the mirror in his living room, applying Dittany on a bruise that Ginny’s lips left at his neck. They’re heading out to another meeting at the Ministry.

He turns around, satisfied with his handiwork (the mark’s disappeared) and breathes: ‘Right.’ It’s stupid, for about a million reasons that he doesn’t have time to get into but he lets the words leave his mouth anyway, simply because he knows that they’ll annoy her. ‘So, sex, freedom or firewhiskey, which one should I give up first, Hermione?’

Wordlessly, like Andromeda did with her sister that day, Hermione throws her glass of orange juice in his face and doesn’t wait for him to Disapparate.

A lot of back and forth ensues, that last week of August. With Ron and Hermione, first, who do their best to help, still, even when, by all standards, Harry knows that he’s being a complete dick to them. With Kingsley, next, who, after responding in substance to Narcissa’s accusations in the papers, agrees with the three of them that there’s probably no need to tell the world that the Hallows were real. No one saw Harry’s parents’ ghosts and he, at least, manages to protect _The Boy Who Lived_ ’s privacy and mastery of the Elder Wand. For that, Harry is infinitely grateful.

Then, there are Mr and Mrs Weasley. He tries to explain everything to them, with Ron and Hermione at his side, he really does. The forest, the Horcruxes. ‘But, Harry –’ Mrs Weasley starts, one night. She stops when her husband lays a hand on her shoulder.

‘Could you leave us, please?’ Mr Weasley asks. Ron, Hermione and Harry all file back up to Ron’s room. Around one in the morning, Harry assumes that they must be done talking so he slowly makes his way back down to their fireplace with the intention of Flooing home. Instead, he stops dead in his tracks when he hears Ginny’s mother say: ‘I swore on their grave, Arthur.’

‘Molly -’

‘ _They_ picked Sirius - Merlin knows why - but when he died, I -’ she breathes out a sob. Harry stands, like petrified, hiding behind the wall at the bottom of the stairs. ‘I wanted them to know that there would still be someone looking out for their son, you know? I promised I’d protect him like my own,’ she cries. ‘I _trusted_ Albus, Arthur. And all the while he was raising that kid like a pig for slaughter? Messing with his head so much that he gave himself up and doesn’t even question it. Arthur, what did we do?’ she asks. ‘How did we allow this to happen? I should have -’

‘Shh,’ he says. ‘Molly, shhh.’

Again, there is nothing to say to that, so Harry says nothing, waits, making no noise and pretending that he doesn’t exist.

On the 31st, Hermione invites the DA over to Grimmauld Place. It’s the last reunion of the summer so she’s decided to turn it into, if not a _party_ , at least a festive gathering of sorts, to say goodbye to those who will be in Hogwarts for the foreseeable future. Ron passes the message onto Harry, says: ‘Well, she did kind of roll her eyes,’ he explains, ‘But she said you could come.’ Harry also kind of rolls his eyes in response, and Ron shrugs. ‘Be there at 7, yeah?’

In truth, it may sound odd but for the most part, he does have a great time, that evening. The press gets wind of the reunion sometime earlier in the day, sets up camp in front of the house (will they ever leave them alone? He wonders), but Hermione swiftly arranges for everyone to Floo in instead. They all pile up into the big house’s dining room and drink a bit too much, laugh a bit too loud. Kreacher has been working relentlessly to make the house more habitable all summer – it’s not perfect, yet, but it really shows improvement. The dead house-elf heads have gone from the walls, and so have the rest of the remnants of the place’s pureblood heyday, safely stored away in the attic. There are still things to be done but at least, the air is breathable. Ron and Hermione have officially moved in (much to Mrs Weasley’s despair) and Harry must say that he strangely finds the place almost homey. 

Kreacher is over the moon with the idea of the party. People to serve, mountains and mountains of canapés and desserts to cater – his idea of a night well spent. The elf gets a bit annoyed that many members of the DA tend to thank him for his work, Harry notices, but overall, the evening goes smoothly. Neville makes him laugh, Ginny lightens the mood by performing little impressions of Hermione behind her back; it kind of works. The DA all know him, anyway, know how private he can be, so everyone tactfully avoids the subject of everything that’s been in the press these past few days. It’s funny how, when they were in school, it was often him against the rest of the world - the way people stared when they thought he was the heir of Slytherin, or that he’d made up Voldemort’s return. Now, they’re all adults and that night, they don’t even talk about the war. For the first time in his life, Harry feels like he actually belongs somewhere, regardless of what could or could not be said about him in the outside world.

They’re _friends_ , he realises. Not _best_ friends, not like Ron and Hermione, but friends nonetheless. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t come to the reunions,’ he tells Hannah, that night. ‘This spring – this summer,’ he amends. ‘It’s just been -’

_Busy_ is perhaps the word he had in mind. She smiles, pats him on the back. ‘No one expected you to, Harry,’ she reassures him. ‘We all survived for a year without you, you know?’ she laughs. ‘But you’re always welcome. Whenever you want.’

It’s nice to think that this – the DA – has outgrown him. That they’re all perhaps stronger than he is.

Cho, it turns out (and now, Harry would be lying if he didn’t admit this feels a _bit_ weird) has a new boyfriend. He’s tall, blond, a bit awkward – a Beauxbatons boy she met in St Mungo’s, back in June. She introduces him to all of them. ‘Paul, this is Luna, Angelina, Seamus.’ They all shake hands. When she gets to Harry, she giggles: ‘And, I suppose, this is the only one among us who doesn’t need an introduction.’

Paul seems positively impressed; Harry barely suppresses a cringe. ‘It’s an honour,’ he says.

Harry quickly manages to change the subject. ‘This is Ginny,’ he says, because it seems that Cho has conveniently _forgotten_ to introduce her. ‘My girlfriend.’

Ginny tenses next to him but thankfully, consents to politely chat with Cho and Paul for a few minutes. She then nods at their empty glasses and volunteers to get a refill. Harry smirks, thinks: _some things never end_.

To tell the truth, it’s a while before he realises she hasn’t come back. Fifteen minutes, maybe? He listens to Dean tell a joke, watches Angelina try to cheer George up. At first, he thinks that Ginny might be helping Kreacher in the kitchen. ‘Have you seen Ginny?’ he asks the elf, passing by.

Kreacher is all smiles when he answers. ‘Miss Weasley has gone out, Master Harry. Thank you for entrusting me with this gathering, Master Harry. This house used to -’

Harry doesn’t listen to the rest. Probably something about all the elaborate parties that the Blacks used to host in their day, torturing a Muggle or two for entertainment. It doesn’t really matter: by the time the elf has stopped talking, he’s rushed out of the house.

Harry lets out a sigh of relief when he sees her still there, on the landing. For a second, he’d imagined: a kidnapping, a murder, her body in a pool of blood. Instead, she’s standing there, facing a dozen journalists at the bottom of the stairs, cameras at the ready. It is bizarre, Harry thinks, watching them and knowing that they can’t see through to their side of the fence because of the Fidelius charm, hiding them from view down to the top step. ‘I wish I was like you,’ Ginny just says when he closes the front door behind him. She’s leaning against the wall to her side, looking down. ‘You’d stand there like a cool kid, observing them in silence while smoking Muggle cigarettes, like some sort of people study.’

He chuckles a little. She’s probably right, he thinks. There is something sad in her voice, though, and he wants her to laugh, so: ‘I _am_ a cool kid,’ he jokes. She chuckles. Closes her eyes right afterwards, stays silent for a while.

‘I can’t do this, anymore, Harry,’ she says.

In hindsight, it seems ridiculous, but at first, he thinks this is about Cho. Ginny refuses to look at him, eyes focused on the floor and they’re standing just where Ron got Splinched that one time, Harry recalls. ‘I’m sorry,’ he apologises, again, like he did with Ron and Hermione. ‘I know she’s just -’ he rolls his eyes. ‘I know it’s not ideal but I’ll speak to her, I’ll -’

Ginny’s crying, though. He realises that as soon as she looks up at him. He hasn’t seen her cry in a long, long time, Harry thinks, not since the funerals, since – Ginny quickly smiles through her tears, though, something sad, and for a moment, he thinks that she does seem pleasantly surprised that he’s picked up on the girls’ old rivalry. _Well, I’m not a complete twat_ , he wants to joke, but – ‘It’s not that, Harry,’ she just says. ‘I mean, I can’t do _us,_ anymore, Harry.’

Something drops at the pit of his stomach and he’s pretty sure his heart stops. For a moment, there are about a million things he wants to say but there also isn’t any air in his lungs to push the words out. In the end, he can’t even speak, like the ground is collapsing under his feet.

‘I’m sorry.’ More tears, on her cheeks. She wipes them off with the sleeve of her jumper and looks down to the floor again. Her red, Converse trainers against the grey stones. ‘You didn’t see that coming, did you?’ she shakes her head, almost chuckles to herself like it’s ripping her soul apart. ‘It’s my fault, I’m sorry. It’s not you, it’s me, I -’

He sets his jaw. ‘Ah, don’t give me that -’

They’re the first words that are out of his mouth, that night, and hers feel like a punch in the gut. ‘I look at you and I see you dead, Harry,’ she tells him. His mouth opens, closes. ‘You know, sometimes, I wake up in the night and I put my hand on your chest just to make sure you’re still breathing. I can’t do this anymore, Harry. I’ll go crazy.’

‘Gin -’

‘We don’t _talk_. You can’t call me your girlfriend all the time if we don’t talk. In front of your neighbours, in front of everybody – For Merlin’s sake, Harry, this isn’t a _relationship._ It’s not -’

He crosses his arms, insists: ‘Hey, I’m not the one who doesn’t want to talk, Ginny. I’ve tried to bring stuff up but every time you just –’

‘I don’t _want_ to talk!’ A hand runs over her face and the fairy lights that Hermione’s bewitched to decorate the front porch reflect in her eyes. Harry feels like he can’t breathe, like – _no, no, no, no, no, please -_ like he’d give away everything he has for a time turner, right now, everything he has just get back into her arms last night. ‘You don’t get it, I - I thought we could get away from it,’ she tries to explain. ‘You and me, away from the world. No war, no grief, no past, all future,’ she smiles and he feels her hand, soft against his cheek. She’s stepped forward, close – so fucking close.

‘But you’re _you,_ Harry.’ And, it’s not his fault, she adds, it’s just: _‘_ You _are_ this war. And, you did all these heroic things that you’re too shy to even brag about and it’s why we all love you,’ she breathes; he can feel it against his skin. ‘But, _I_ can’t keep waking up every morning thinking that the boy next to me almost died, Harry. _I_ need to move on. _I_ need to forget about the war, forget about ever being worried sick about you, about Ron, but I can’t do that if all the Narcissa Malfoys of this world keep doing interviews about you. And, you can’t stop them – neither can I, - but every time I hear something, it’s like I’m back standing on Hogwarts grounds with you dead in Hagrid’s arms. I can’t ignore it, but I also can’t live with it, Harry. I can’t do this anymore.’

He tries to kiss her. She lets him. Bittersweet, the taste of salt on her lips. He begs her: ‘Please, I love you, please -’ and the end (the end of _them_ ), is a mess: she pulls away, he tries to grab her hand, tries to keep her there, to _talk._ She misses a step, he goes in to catch her, accidentally makes it past the Fidelius charm. The press get their pictures – oh _that,_ they do, don’t they, in the end? And the cameras start flashing (‘Harry, over here! Is she leaving, Harry?’) and _fuck_ he thinks to himself but also wonders if, when the whole world finally knows about _them,_ it’ll mean that at least, she’ll have been officially his, even for a short while.

That night, it’s a testament to their friendship that when Hermione sits next to him in his apartment, later, she says: ‘Ginny told me,’ rather than: ‘I told you so,’ and doesn’t insist on what a tosser he’s been with everyone, lately. He kind of wants to thank her, maybe, but instead, he decides to down the firewhiskey that’s left in his glass, first. ‘She said I should check on you, was worried how you’d,’ Hermione continues, looks down at his coffee table. ‘How you’d _react._ I guess she was right.’

There’s an empty bottle of firewhiskey on his coffee table and a fresh one just opened, a broken glass, cigarettes and ash dropped against the edition of the Daily Prophet that had Narcissa’s face on it. Harry tries to reach for the whiskey, tips the bottle, Hermione catches it and: ‘I think you’ve had enough, Harry.’

He shakes his head, clumsily tries to grab it from her again – she laughs and vanishes it with her wand. ‘Tough luck,’ she just says.

_Fuck_ , he thinks. Leans back against the cushions, looks up to the ceiling. The world spins around him and that’s exactly what it is, he thinks: _tough luck._ ‘I told her I loved her,’ he says. ‘You’d have been proud of me,’ he smiles, shakes his head. It was right before the press saw them, right before she slipped, when he was trying to convince her to stay. ‘She said that she did, too,’ he sighs. ‘That it wasn’t enough. Why wasn’t it enough, Hermione? Dumbledore said it would always be enough, he said -’ 

‘Oh, Harry.’

He cries on her shoulder, that night, like she did a couple of months ago in a Muggle hotel room. In the dark, she just notes that it’s the first time she’s seen tears on his face since Godric’s Hallow. He didn’t cry at any of the funerals, not the way the others did. All he could hear, he remembers, were Dumbledore’s words in the back of his head after Sirius went through the veil. _You care so much you feel as though you will bleed to death with the pain of it._

Well, he decides that’s what it feels like, now, too, losing Ginny. Ginny, the girl who used draw patterns over his chest with her wand whenever he’d get cold, leaving a trail of her warming charms down his skin. Harry fiddles with his wand, now, next to Hermione. Moves it in the dark, mindlessly traces similar lines on his skin. Against his forearm, the wood feels oddly soft and soothing and he wonders what it would look like if he drew blood, here. Albeit a few small cuts and bruises from the battle, his wounds have mostly been bloodless, this year and _Avada Kedavras_ don’t leave open gashes or cuts like Umbridge’s cursed quill did back in the day. Neither does heartbreak, to tell the truth, and Harry catches himself wondering what it would feel like, warm blood against his skin. He wouldn’t even have to say the words – just _think_ the spell hard enough. _Diffindo._ His wand hovers, against his skin, caresses the burn that Vernon once left at his wrist when he “accidentally” held the gaslighter too close. ‘Be careful, boy,’ he said, as Harry screamed out in pain. ‘It could burn you.’

In a split second, Hermione grabs his wand from his hand and throws it across the room. Harry’s startled, like jerked awake, realises that he _did_ draw blood, just a bit, the tiniest cut by the side of his wrist. ‘Harry, _what the fuck?_ ’ Hermione says and he can hear the fear in her voice. _I’m sorry,_ he thinks. _I’m sorry, I’m –_ ‘Don’t you dare.’

_I’m sorry, I’m just shite at everything, these days,_ he wants to say. It’s what it feels like, right now, as he tries to close his eyes because maybe if he’s this drunk, he’ll be able to sleep, dream of Ginny, something sweet and hopeful, like June. Instead, all he sees is still blood on the tiles before his eyelids snap open again. ‘What do _you_ see when you close your eyes, Hermione?’ he kind of slurs, kind of asks. She smiles sadly, her shoulder touching his.

He expects: good things. Ron, her parents, people who love her. He gets: ‘Bellatrix.’

Doesn’t know what to say to that, really, so just lets out a sigh, sinks further into the couch. ‘We’re all going _mad,_ aren’t we?’

He’s dismissive when he speaks, is almost surprised by how categorical her answer suddenly is. ‘No, we’re not, Harry.’ He feels Hermione move, slowly, turning sideways on the couch so that her back is against the armrest, feet tucked in under her bum. ‘Harry, look at me,’ she says. He doesn’t know what else to do so he does turn, sits with one foot on the ground, the other flat on the sofa, elbow resting against his folded knee. ‘What you’re feeling – what _we’re_ feeling - it’s got a name,’ she says. ‘The Muggles coined it.’

And so, that night, the 31st of August 1998, she tells him about the thing that they will all struggle with, their whole lives: the thing that she calls “PTSD.” She read about it, she explains, which almost gets him to laugh again because _of course,_ she did. ‘They first diagnosed it in Muggle soldiers when they came back from war. You know, the first world war?’ He vaguely remembers that from Muggle school. ‘They said they were “shell-shocked;” that’s where the phrase comes from.’ She quotes, visibly from memory: ‘“It’s a mental health disorder that develops in people who have experienced a shocking, scary, or dangerous event.”’

_That,_ the sound of _that,_ does make him laugh. ‘Oh, please, don’t laugh,’ she says, so he stops.

‘There are different symptoms,’ she adds, after a beat. ‘I have: an inability to trust people,’ she says. ‘It’s like: there’s no one I want to talk to, no one I can relate to, no one who _understands,_ apart from you and Ron. I think that if McGonagall hadn’t given in on boarding, I wouldn’t have gone back to school.’ Harry looks up, surprised. ‘Couldn’t have done it, not without knowing if I’d see the two of you. I have: nightmares, flashbacks, what they call intrusive memories. Sometimes a door opens and suddenly, I’m back in Malfoy Manor, and it’s hard to get out of it. You have that, too, I think,’ she tells him.

He looks down at his foot on the couch.

‘You’ve got irritability as well, obviously,’ she adds. He shrugs, thinks: _I’ve always been irritable_ but Hermione cocks her head to the side. ‘More than usual, Harry, I’ve noticed. It’s like after Cedric died.’ He opens his mouth to protest but she catches him off-guard when she says: ‘Really, why on Earth did you pick a fight with Narcissa Malfoy, Harry? Think about it.’

For a moment, she lets it sit.

‘You and Ron feel guilt, too,’ she states, ‘and I see self-destructive behaviour in the two of you. _You_ smoke cigarettes, get into fights and relationships that are doomed from the start, like you’re trying to punish yourself for something. _He_ helps everyone to the point that he forgets about himself. Me with my parents, you with dealing with the press, Ginny with Quidditch, George with the shop, like helping everybody in the world will somehow make up for the fact that he couldn’t help Fred,’ Hermione sighs. ‘Ginny’s –’

‘Pretending it doesn’t exist,’ he says, nods. The words roll off his tongue but now, they make so much more sense.

‘The technical term is avoidance,’ Hermione corrects (can’t help herself, he smirks). ‘But, yeah.’

And, for a long time, they stay silent, that night. He asks her to give him answers on a silver platter, asks when this whole fucking thing will end, what the Muggles do about it. Hermione laughs, shakes her head. ‘They go to therapy, Harry,’ she giggles. ‘For, like, fifteen years.’

They burst out a laugh, that night, the two of them. The kind of _if I didn’t laugh, I’d cry_ laugh that still somehow manages to warm his heart. Hermione shifts on the couch until she’s next to him again, pulls him into a hug. They look at the old article with Narcissa’s face on it and after _The Boy Who Lived,_ following the battle, _The Boy Who Lied,_ this headline read. ‘What do you think they’ll go with tomorrow?’ he smirks, nodding at the paper in front of them. ‘ _The Boy Who Got Dumped?_ ’

A soft chuckle escapes Hermione’s lips like _you’re unbelievable, Harry,_ but still, she asks him if he’ll be okay, in the short term. ‘About Ginny, I mean. I can’t go back to Hogwarts if you’re -’ Hermione trails off, clearly doesn’t want to finish her sentence but just points at the mess on his coffee table. The booze and the cigarettes, the lot of it.

It reminds him a bit of what Andromeda said a few weeks ago, after she threw her sister out of the house and allowed him back in. He tells Hermione about it. Remembers the way Teddy’s grandmother’s smile was sad, twisting at her lips. ‘I’m sorry, too,’ she said. ‘I should have known. I should have asked someone else to be there.’ Harry shook his head, thought: _no, this is my fault,_ but – ‘It’s what she does, Cissy,’ Andromeda just went on. ‘Was always smart, the smartest of the three of us. A lot of times, I’ve actually wondered who was worse, her or Bella. Bella was always the wild card, the one you pointed at people, our mother used to say. But at least, she believed in something. Cissy doesn’t. She was smart and married _smart_ because that’s what you did. Stuck around because again, she thought that way, she’d have power and – well, everything she wanted, really.’

It was a moment, a fleeting moment where Harry wondered what must have been worse. Being born with _that_ kind of family, or no family at all. ‘Which one were you, then?’ he asked, catching her gaze. ‘I mean, if Bellatrix was the wild one and Narcissa, the smart one. Which one were you?’

Andromeda laughed, blushed slightly, and shook her head at him. ‘The one who fell in love, I suppose.’

Harry used to think that out of the three of them, Ron would be the funny one, Hermione, the smart one, and he – well, he hoped - ‘I need to see who I am without either being with her or dreaming about being with her, I reckon,’ he admits. Two years of his life and this is where they’re at. From his sixth year onwards, any future that he dared think about was Ginny’s (theirs) but there _was_ something before that, he remembers, now. ‘I’ll sign up for the Aurors,’ he says.

‘Oh, Harry, you don’t have to -’

‘No, I want to.’ Hermione was right, he thinks, that day when she said he needed a purpose in life. ‘It’s the only thing I’ve ever _really_ wanted to do, actually.’

And, if it’s the last thing he does, he thinks, he’s going to do _that_. Make sure that _this,_ whatever it was that happened to them, doesn’t happen to anyone else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you liked it and thanks again for leaving kudos, bookmarks and comments, they're much, much appreciated. I tend to hang out in the comments section for a few days after posting so please, feel free to come and say hi! 
> 
> I have a number of projects going on (original stuff and also there might be a new PB one-shot on the way) so I'm not sure when I'll be able to update next but most likely not before the end of January. Take care of yourselves in the meantime and if you celebrate, have a lovely Christmas.


	4. out of straw (bale it all)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone, I hope that you are well and staying safe. This chapter's just fresh out of the press and a bit shorter than the last (just under 10k). I had initially planned two chapters to cover September to December '98 but it seems that just like Adele, the singer, I believe in trilogies ^^. I have about 70% of next chapter written, and 50 % of the one after that so hopefully I can keep the updates within four to six weeks :). Also, this fic has blown out of proportion, I'm thinking there will probably be 10-12 chapters in total. For the love of God, what am I doing with my life? 
> 
> In terms of contents, same TW as before (general PTSD and mentions of the self-harm-y episode of last chapter). There's also a scene that touches on domestic violence, although it doesn't really concern any of our main characters. Also the lack of clear criminal justice system in the wizarding world is honestly one of my biggest pet peeves with the series. Like, the wizengamot acts as their trial court but what about the rest? Do they have solicitors? Barristers? Can they appeal? Where? Anyway, due to this uncertainty, I've decided to model the magical system on the UK Muggle one. When Giulia mentions the "MPS," I'm thinking the "Magical Prosecution Service," like the Crown Prosecution Service (CPS) in the Muggle world. 
> 
> Lastly, I don't speak Italian. If I got anything wrong, let me know. 
> 
> Anyway, hope you enjoy and again, don't hesitate to leave a review. I know it just sounds like something that people "say" but they truly make my day. 

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_ iv. out of straw (bale it all) _

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Ginny leaves, in ’98, and it’s not the end of the world.

Harry’s been through wars. Knows that worlds don’t end. Still remembers the day when Cedric died, when Sirius died, when Dumbledore died, when Teddy’s parents were murdered. Every time something so dramatic happened that he thought surely _,_ this would mean the end of everything else. The Earth would have to stop its rotation around the sun, the Muggle electronics would have to all quit functioning at once, because if his world shattered, so should everyone else’s. But, that’s not how it works, is it?

Regardless of what you throw at it, the universe just shrugs. It’s a bit like Muggles, keeping the noise and the cold out with bales of straw around their houses, packed tight and compact in pseudo, eco-friendliness, memories wrapped and hidden inside layers of concrete. In 1998, autumn wets the pavements and dampens the air, doesn’t grant any of its precious attention to the leaves that fall upon the ground. Harry functions, works. The world seems keen on continuing to exist, so he has to. Spends his nights lying awake, stares at the walls and only then allows himself to remember the insulation that sits at the core. Usually, by three in the morning, Ginny’s the only thing he can think of.

Auror training starts on the 7th of September, that year. A week after the girls go back to Hogwarts. The days pass. In preparation, he writes to Kingsley to sign up, orders a new Potions kit and some books from Diagon Alley. Waits.

The day after Ginny leaves, after Hermione sits on his couch and lays out her diagnosis for the PTSD that lives rent-free in their heads (like putting words on an issue will instantly make it go away), Harry opens all of the storage cabinets around his flat. He lines up cans of beer and bottles of firewhiskey in a neat row against the kitchen worktop, takes one good look at them and pours everything down the drain. Halfway through, it occurs to him that he could have just used his wand to vanish the liquids out but there is something oddly satisfying in watching the amber colours mix in with the clearer ones, drops tinting the stainless steel of his sink. The smell makes him feel like retching; he runs the tap to get rid of it.

That morning’s Day Zero, he decides. The day after Ginny tells him that the relationship that according to her wasn’t ever one is over, the day that must not be named, or discussed, or thought of, _ever_ again. Harry throws up in the bathroom at eight o’clock in the morning and decides that _this_ is what he will do. No more booze, no more cigarettes (those are actually bloody hard to quit, he finds - only really manages to completely wean himself off by late December), no more fucking about. This autumn, Harry decides that he will _work,_ train, and come home. He doesn’t really want to kill himself, anyway, so in truth, what else is there? Throws all the glass containers into a bag, the last reminders of the bizarre summer he’s just had, drops them off into the recycling bins, over at the car park of the council estate just down the road. The September sun is still too bright, nicer mornings and chillier nights, and he decides, rather authoritatively, that this is it: the page turns, doesn’t it?

‘You look well,’ Hermione tells him, that first weekend after she comes home from Hogwarts, mountains of homework, tales of house points and of the fat lady in tow. It all feels rather anachronic, like from a different era altogether, and Harry has a feeling that she hasn’t told Ron about the night when he drunkenly considered slashing his own veins open. _You look well,_ to her, probably means _congratulations, you haven’t done anything to fuck yourself up further, over the short span of the last five days_.

He’s thankful that she didn’t tell anyone, though, trusted him enough not to do it again. When Harry woke up on Day Zero, there was shame in the back of his throat, the result of a lapse of judgment perhaps, anger at himself for being weak and feeling used. Yet, somewhere, a strange idea that not only could he not keep Ginny, but he also wasn’t even capable of properly hurting himself when he meant to. Hermione says: ‘You look well,’ that day, and Harry just swallows and shrugs, realises that perhaps the person he used to be (Harry, just Harry)’s boarded a train and left the station, now. Everything’s being dealt with by Harry Potter, these days, the bloke whose jaw is always set in the pictures that the papers take, the bloke who shrugs and just ploughs on.

‘Thanks,’ he says.

Hermione comes and goes, that autumn so Ron and he rebuild their own little unit. A unit that’s always been fun, worked well, but has also always felt like a tricycle that’s missing a wheel, functional but less grounded, just doing its best to carefully trudge along the road until the missing part’s brought back to it. Ron laughs, says: ‘You know, sometimes, it’s the same when we’re on a date,’ and Harry probably looks positively mortified. ‘Like, I’m happy to be with her, don’t get me wrong, but I’m always looking over my shoulder to see where you’re at.’

Harry hopes that this doesn’t happen during _all_ of their activities because _God,_ that is not a vision he needed to have in his brain. Ron coughs, probably suddenly realising what he’s said and Harry lets him off with a laugh and a little shove to his shoulder. Secretly, he kind of understands what his best friend means, though, because it was the same (albeit more dramatic) when Ron left last year, like they weren’t sure how to be without him. It occurs to Harry that Hermione’s on her own in Scotland, writing letters and packing her bags every weekend to head back south. If what she told Harry is true, that the two of them are the only people she trusts right now, he imagines perhaps he and Ron are the lucky ones, that her adventure is far lonelier than theirs.

Auror training soon absorbs most of their energy, anyway. Their intake is made up of twelve people, the largest in years, they’re told. Ron, Seamus, Dean, Katie, Susan, Terry, Padma, Parvati, Justin, Anthony, Harry and the odd one out. There’s always an odd one out. This time, her name is Opal and she’s a shy, home-schooled girl with wide, grey eyes and golden, brown locks that cascade down each side of her face in perfect symmetry. Harry must admit that he doesn’t pay much attention to her, at first, until they’re all asked why they joined and she’s the only one who has a story to tell that isn’t a variation of: ‘Well, I was in the DA, I fought in the battle, so it felt like the next logical step.’

Harry makes a joke out of his own answer. ‘To take the down the Ministry from the inside and rule the world, I presume,’ he says, because he’s pretty sure that at least one journalist will write that somewhere. He gets a few laughs from the gang and an annoyed eye-roll from Kingsley who is there to attend their Welcome-To-The-Ministry-Of-Magic party. It’s what is _expected_ , though, Harry presumes. Ultimately, it’s easier saying _that_ than giving out his real reason for joining. _Well, I already have PTSD so might as well spare it from anyone else,_ probably wouldn’t sound as inspiring as people want him to be. 

Opal says: ‘With Mum and Dad, we hid Muggleborns,’ and suddenly, Harry’s interested, curious about all the things that happened outside the tent that they were trapped in. He looks at her: her small frame and her shy voice. ‘We helped about fifty people get out of the country. I know it’s not much, but –’

His words are quick, before he can really think. ‘No, that’s loads,’ he says. She blushes (of course), because _Harry Potter_ ’s just spoken to her and unlike the others, she hasn’t decided what she sees in him, yet. Dean takes care of it, flashes her a reassuring smile. 

‘Harry’s right, you know?’ he says. ‘Plus, I’ve heard it’s really rare that they take people in without a Hogwarts education, you must be really good.’

Her skin is pearly white and in contrast, her cheeks are almost crimson red. When Harry catches her gaze, he realises that there’s something of himself in her, something that dates back to when he was eleven and always surprised to be on the receiving end of any actual human decency. He doesn’t think that’s ever truly left him.

‘You’ll see,’ Ron laughs, a few seats away. He fakes a secretive, conspiratorial tone and Harry rolls his eyes over his glass of water. ‘At first, you’re impressed ‘cause he’s _Harry Potter_ and all, but then you’ll realise he’s a complete wanker,’ he shrugs, shoving a piece of potato into his mouth. The table chuckles around him. ‘Then, suddenly, it’s seven years later and there’s a price on your head because you’ve followed him into some foolish attempt at saving the wizarding world,’ he grins, raising his glass in Harry’s direction. ‘Be careful, he’s really bad news.’

Harry snorts and, ‘Yeah,’ he nods, picking up the joke where his best mate expertly left it. One-upping each other is an effortless game between the two of them, almost something from before the war. ‘Reckon I’m still at the wanker stage, right?’

Everyone around them laughs, including Opal. Something discreet but happy and just like that, she becomes part of their little DA family. She’s only twenty, she later admits, and a child of the same, stupid wars, Harry thinks.

They spend most of their days in a classroom on the DMLE floor of the Ministry, that September, running around between duelling rooms, spell firing ranges, the potions lab and the library. The facilities they have are truly impressive; even Ron’s eyes go wide when they’re given a tour of the department. It’s a bit like being eleven again and discovering Hogwarts for the first time, except that everything here is geared towards making them the best Aurors they can be. Portraits of the few Death Eaters who remain at large are displayed in almost every room and Harry feels a sort of bustling energy running through him every time he steps into the office, a buzz that comes from knowing that now, at least, he’s doing _something_ about it. It’s not much, especially since they’re not allowed to go out onto the field until the beginning of October but at least, there is light at the end of the tunnel.

Aside from the Healer who comes in a couple of times to teach them first aid, most of their instructors are experienced Aurors. Robards, the newly reintegrated Head Auror takes on their spell and duelling instruction. ‘We _had_ a trainer,’ he says, providing no further explanation and Harry later learns that the woman’s been locked in Azkaban for months, pending her trial for collaborating with Death Eaters. It becomes quickly apparent that whatever’s left of the department is terribly overworked and understaffed. Yet, the decision to hire Harry (or any of them, for that matter) clearly came from Kingsley rather than the DMLE themselves. Continuously, Robards addresses their group as ‘a merry band of children,’ and on Harry’s first day, the man actually asks him, in front of everyone else, if he knows of any spells that aren’t _Expelliarmus._

It clearly annoys Ron far more than it annoys Harry himself. ‘ _We_ fought in a war,’ Ron says, one night, over a pint with Dean and Seamus. ‘What on Earth did _he_ do?’

The others seem to agree (‘Fecking right, that is,’ Seamus even says) but surprisingly, part of Harry finds that he kind of _gets_ Robards. He’s not sure how to put it into words, yet, but being an Auror already feels _very_ different from simply fighting for survival. Robards’ not like Snape, he’s not downright hostile, he just doesn’t _care._ It’s something that Harry finds almost refreshing, like the fact that one of his trainees killed the Dark Lord barely registers on the long list of his concerns.

Often, over the next few months, Auror training feels like the first time since Lupin’s defence classes that Harry finds himself being taught things that he actually cares about. Somewhat effortlessly, he throws himself into the work. That autumn, ‘ _Potter’_ is always the first to arrive and the last to leave, putting all his might into catching up with the spells and techniques that the others seem to have learnt in Hogwarts while he was too busy being the Chosen One. For the first time in his life, Harry actually feels like he understands why Hermione always loved studying so much: it helps him focus. Often, he finds himself glaring right back at Robards across the room, determined to make him care.

It’s a strange thing, too: being in a classroom again. Being able to make mistakes that won’t cost anyone else’s life.

At night, Harry can’t drink himself to sleep, anymore, so he takes up running. Comes home late from the Ministry, eats a Mars bar or two, tosses and turns until four o’clock in the morning (he _does_ sleep sometimes, just enough that he doesn’t die, it seems) before getting up and throwing in the towel. He fishes out an old pair of trainers and tracksuit bottoms charmed to fit his size rather than Dudley’s, and takes off into the night. Runs through the streets of London until the sun starts poking its head around the corner, comes home, gets a shower and tea before heading back into work.

Politely, Mia, the girl who lives on the ground floor of his building asks if he could try and be quieter when he heads out – the gate in front of the house squeaks loudly, she explains, and –

‘Oh, sure. Sorry,’ Harry says. He supposes he could just Apparate out onto the street but instead, he rushes down the stairs and simply jumps over the fence. Sometimes, Ginny’s voice finds its way into the back of his head: _are you trying to live like a Muggle, Harry?_

Obviously, the press and the whole Narcissa debacle don’t simply go away because he wishes them to. Kingsley and the Ministry monitor coverage all through September and October, even summon Harry into a special meeting in Kingsley’s office, a couple weeks after he starts Auror training. Harry politely shakes hands with a wizard from the Department of Information who drones on for an hour about things like approval ratings, interviews to be given and opinion polls. Regardless, Harry still refuses to meet with journalists and finds it bizarre that there are charts to be drawn about what people think of him.

‘Your decision to join the Aurors was quite well received,’ the Ministry official says, pointing at an arrow moving up on a chart, like an indisputable fact. Harry kind of wishes Ron was in the room to take the piss out of it. ‘It seems to have swayed a number of people in your favour, though we still have a thirty-five per cent “don’t know” rate amongst British witches and wizards between the ages of 20 and 100, when asked whether they believe Mrs Malfoy’s version of events, or yours.’ The wizard flicks his wand and another chart appears on the board in front of them. ‘Of course, we still have a ten per cent rate of people who believe her version of events, but I doubt we’ll really ever be able to swing those.’

Kingsley nods thoughtfully, like it all means something to him. To Harry, the only indisputable fact of this matter is that the Malfoys willingly hosted Voldemort in their own home. He’s never exactly been the forgiving type.

‘Still better than we hoped,’ Kingsley finally shrugs, quickly sharing a glance with the other wizard. ‘I suppose the Malfoys did rub a lot of people off the wrong way, didn’t they?’

‘ _They were Death Eaters_ ,’ Harry interrupts with a frown because suddenly, this whole conversation is beginning to feel really, fucking absurd. Why is _he_ the one under scrutiny, he wonders, while Lucius Malfoy is the one with the Dark Mark branded into his skin? In response, Kingsley just gives Harry a _look_ , that same look he bore when, a couple weeks ago, he explained that facts don’t matter as much as the way you spin them.

‘I hate to say this,’ Kingsley says, later, once Harry and he are left alone. Harry feels his heart in his throat. ‘But your break-up with Ginny was the best thing that could have happened, media-wise. It’s all everyone is talking about, these days. Made the Malfoys look like old news.’

Harry decides that he has nothing to say to that, now, so he says nothing. Just looks to his feet, studies the wooden flooring of the Minister’s office. Every time he closes his eyes, he still sees Ginny right there, _almost_ within reach. Their relationship was never made public but with the pictures that were taken in front of Grimmauld Place, their break-up definitely was. From what Harry’s seen so far, the press has tried to piece the relationship together by getting quotes from obscure Hogwarts acquaintances about their time together during his sixth year, and harassed Ginny for comment when she went down to Hogsmeade last weekend. Overall, even though he’s been dealing with reporters since he was fourteen years old, this level of attention and scrutiny still doesn’t fail to surprise him. The way that people _care_ , the way that they seem to think there are sides to be taken, like he and everyone he touches suddenly become public property.

From what he’s read in the press, either Ginny is a slut or he’s an arsehole, depending on which news outlet you pick. _The Prophet_ seems to have opted for the latter, unsurprisingly, probably as a result of years of much warranted mutual dislike. For once, though, instead of ignoring what is being said, Harry finds himself kind of drawn to reading their abuse, like somehow, they could give him all the answers he doesn’t seem to have. All the signs that she gave him that their relationship was failing, every time he felt her flinch when he called her his girlfriend and attributed it to something else, all the little things that were there for months and which he wilfully ignored. Their gossip pages run editorials (words, and words, and words of speculation) about all the reasons that could have led her to date him in the first place ( _she must have really felt sorry for him,_ someone writes, once) but also to dump him ( _I mean, have you seen how crazy he’s been acting lately, no wonder she couldn’t be bothered_ ). Sometimes, he reads stuff and finds that it strangely makes sense, wonders if perhaps _The Prophet_ might actually be better at figuring out what went wrong than he is, considering he never saw it coming. 

‘She ended it because I’m _me_ ,’ he tells Hermione, once, which is technically true ( _You are this war_ and _I can’t, Harry_ ) but also not the full picture. Sometimes, when he’s feeling less charitable, he can’t help but think that she was selfish, prioritising her own ability to get over the war by closing the door on it, while being _Harry Potter_ prevents _him_ from ever doing so. He’s got to live with this in a way that she doesn’t, in a way that she can insulate herself from the noise, heal, grieve her brother, and slowly move on. Sometimes he feels like that’s so, bloody unfair, like if he’s got to suffer through this, why shouldn’t she, but then he remembers how much he loves her. How he would have died for her a hundred times over, and how much he thinks she deserves to be happy. If she couldn’t be happy with him, she was probably right to end it, wasn’t she?

Hermione just responds with another one of her, ‘Oh, Harry,’-s and levitates the paper away from his hands and into the fire.

On the other hand of the spectrum, _Witch Weekly_ has bizarrely taken his side. This isn’t a relief, of course, because a) it’s always been a ridiculous publication to begin with and b) they seem to be hell-bent on harassing Ginny the most, which also angers him. They paint her as this cutthroat, ruthless witch ( _bitch_ , perhaps) who left the cute, broken and scarred war hero. In front of everyone in the former DA, Luna also declares: ‘Well, he clearly is heartbroken,’ which makes Harry kind of glad that at least, _The Quibbler_ seems to find Nargles more interesting to cover. 

‘Mate -’ Ron tries, once. They’re having lunch at the Ministry canteen, long Formica tables and food that appears on their plates.

‘She left,’ Harry almost spits out. The words seem to physically hurt when they make it past his lips. ‘Hasn’t responded to _any_ of the dozen letters I sent, so I reckon I’ve got to move on, alright?’ he sighs, pushes food around his plate. ‘I _hate_ everything the press is saying about it but if I respond, it’ll just keep feeding the frenzy.’ 

Ron nods, probably remembering how those exact words came out of Hermione’s mouth just a few days before, when Harry threatened to storm into _Witch Weekly_ and the both of them had to _stupefy_ him for his own good. It’s fucking shite that they both know Hermione’s right, so that’s probably why Ron doesn’t ever bring the topic up again. 

‘I was sorry to hear, dear,’ Mrs Weasley says, once, over Sunday roast at The Burrow. It almost makes Harry feel sick to his stomach. There is a tone of mild concern in Ginny’s mother’s voice, and perhaps regret, as well as something almost quizzical, like her judgment is being reserved until one of them finally caves in and gives her the information she needs. The Weasleys generally know that Ginny was the one to break it off (on top of what the press has reported, the look on Harry’s face was probably enough evidence of that), but no one really knows why. ‘She said neither of you did anything wrong, dear, so I was just wondering -’

No matter the amount of curious looks he gets, Harry never says a word (what could he say, anyway?) and just silently wonders how much credit Mrs Weasley still gives _Witch Weekly_ , now that they’ve decided to turn on her daughter. But also: _I swore on their grave,_ Harry suddenly remembers her telling her husband, and: _how did we allow this to happen?_

Sometimes, it really baffles him that the family still seem to want to keep him in their lives. Sometimes, the thought that Fred died because of him hits Harry like a truck and he can’t look anyone in the eye for days afterwards.

‘Ah, give him to me,’ Andromeda says, once, after she spots Teddy wailing in Harry’s arms, outside, in the garden of The Burrow. The little one’s been crying non-stop for the past twenty minutes and Harry must admit that although he loves his godson to hell and back, he does hand him over to his grandmother somewhat gladly. ‘You’ve got that look on your face. He can tell, you know?’ she smiles.

Harry raises an eyebrow as she secures Teddy in her arms. Andromeda’s been spending a lot of time at the Weasleys’ over the past few weeks, especially since Molly gladly offered to look after Teddy a few days a week while the both of them are working. He can’t be put into Muggle nursery until he learns to control his hair colour and Harry refuses to hire wizarding childminders who aren’t family, so figuring out his care was a bit of a nightmare. Andromeda repeatedly points out that: ‘You’re going to _have_ to trust somebody, Harry,’ and punctuates her statements by a handful of exasperated sighs but all he can think about is that if anything were to happen to Teddy, on top of everything else, he probably wouldn’t survive it.

As a result, so far, they’ve been managing through an awkward combination of Molly, Ted’s parents, and taking random days off here and there. 

‘What look?’ he finally asks Andromeda. She coos, softly, and Teddy stops wailing.

‘Like you’re feeling sorry for yourself,’ she just shrugs. ‘You might want to think about being a bit less … _transparent_. Especially with all those cameras following you around.’

She says the word ‘transparent’ like it’s an insult, and it’s in things like these that Harry’s sometimes reminded that there might have been a reason why she was sorted into Slytherin. He half-laughs, half-sighs in response, tries to chase the thoughts away from his head. ‘As soon as we’re out of training, I’ll apply for the night shifts. It’ll be easier then, I can watch him during the days,’ he tells her, instead, skilfully changing the subject. That’s scheduled for the 5th of October, as far as he knows, so it’s only a month, really, and –

‘No, you will _not_ ,’ Andromeda says. Her tone is curt and definitive. ‘You need to sleep.’

Harry catches her gaze, then, and respects the fact that when she speaks, she clearly isn’t pointing this out of concern for him, but out of concern for his ability to effectively look after Teddy. He’s found, over the past few weeks, that Andromeda is both the person who judges his life choices the most, but also the least, beyond the scope of how these choices could impact her grandson. Harry remembers how surprised he was when, from the get-go, she treated him as an independent adult, an equal, and never like _The Boy Who Lived._

‘They trusted you. So, I trust you,’ she said as though in her head, it had always been that simple, almost a mathematical equation. ‘We make decisions together, fifty-fifty.’ She also never asked what her sister was blackmailing him with, before the truth came out, like whatever it was, she would never meddle.

Harry looks at her, now, and shrugs. ‘I don’t really sleep, anyway,’ he admits, trying to forget that perhaps, she _will_ worry about him, too, someday, because while she _was_ in Slytherin, she was also married to a Hufflepuff for twenty years. ‘Some nights, I run ten miles, come home to do push-ups and abs, and I _still_ can’t sleep.’

_Please, just let me do this, please_ , he silently begs Andromeda and when she remains silent, just looking at him, all he can do is eventually resort to chatting about more prosaic concerns, like pointing out the fact that Teddy has now started drooling onto her robes.

‘Andromeda, he’s -’ he starts.

She ultimately just smiles, shifts her grandson in her arms and settles: ‘All right.’ And: ‘For the umpteenth time, Harry, please call me “Annie.”’

So, that autumn, Harry mostly splits his time between work, Teddy, jogging, and spends the little hours he has left at Grimmauld Place. In the summer, he’d kind of deserted the house, leaving it to Kreacher, first, then Ron and Hermione. His place, he supposes, was the one he preferred, the safe haven he’d built with Ginny. Over the past few weeks, though, he’s started popping over to Grimmauld more often. At first, it was because Ron was there and Hermione wasn’t, because there was an empty space to be filled. Quickly, however, as London gets darker and colder, Grimmauld becomes something else.

Initially, it starts with Seamus. He can’t find a place to stay within his budget and Ron asks: ‘Do you mind if he stays at the house? There’s, like, six empty bedrooms or something.’

Harry shrugs and says that of course, he doesn’t mind. Then, gradually, it becomes: Seamus, and Dean, and Justin Finch-Fletchley, and Hannah Abbot, and Opal. Before Harry knows it, the previously grim and empty house fills up with people. Life and laughter, and spells, and songs, like an extension of the Room of Requirement in its heyday. Every time he pops over, Harry finds that someone new has settled on a couch, drinking tea or playing songs on the piano, and he can’t even begin to explain the level of contentment that this brings him. Like he’s _finally_ able to do something for them all: provide their merry band of children with a place to call _home._

Kreacher, thank Merlin, is there to keep the house from turning into complete chaos. He moves back in permanently and still kind of periodically frowns at the DA’s general company, but even Harry can tell that the elf’s heart isn’t truly in it. Kreacher cooks, cleans, and (much to Hermione’s dismay) seems to generally take his duty of serving them very seriously. In late ‘98, Grimmauld Place strangely becomes _the place to be_ in their world. The press permanently sets up camp outside of the house once they figure out that most of the DA’s former members are staying there and Neville and Seamus make it their personal responsibility to fuck with them as much as possible. While Harry truly praises himself for his decision to get his own flat over the summer (a bit of peace and quiet is often a luxury), he likes that on those evenings when he doesn’t particularly want to be alone, he can randomly pop over and have people to talk to.

On the weekends, thanks to McGonagall’s flexible policy with the Seventh Years, a small handful of Hogwarts students often pours in from the fireplace, alongside Hermione. It is usually then that things get truly crowded (and, honestly, when the most fun is had). Neville and Luna are regulars, sleeping on camp beds next to the fire in the upstairs study; by the end of October, Ginny’s the only member of the former DA who hasn’t stepped foot inside. Harry takes that thought, throws it into a box and tries to throw away the key.

Within just a few weeks, the house hosts a total of ten people full-time, sometimes climbing up to fifteen on the weekends. Hogwarts banners are hung, Quidditch league results discussed at length and – of course - house rules are quickly drawn up by Hermione, before the situation manages to get truly out of hand. She makes everyone sign them before entering the premises and under the cover of complaining about it (‘It’s _my_ house!’ Harry says, to which she responds: ‘Oh, Harry, for goodness’ sake, just sign. It’s like living in student halls in here!’), he actually thinks to ask her if she minds. Even if he finds that he bloody _loves_ the house like this (Sirius would have thought it was brilliant, too), Harry must also admit that because he has his own flat, he also doesn’t have to deal with it all the time. This is not exactly what he had in mind when he offered Grimmauld to Ron and her, last summer, for a bit of calm and time on their own.

Hermione seems to consider her answer for a second, before finally smiling and admitting: ‘I’ve my own room at Hogwarts if I want quiet.’ The benefits of being Head Girl, she explains. And, ‘I think I actually like it. It’s like being properly young, you know? Mum even laughed when I told her about it.’

Harry nods and in his head, he’s eating a KitKat and she’s drinking cappuccino, and he’s sitting in a café last spring and asking her why they were never kids. Perhaps they get to be kids _now,_ he muses and Harry understands what she’s saying more than she will ever know.

He signs her list of rules with a smile on his face, later on, even if he doesn’t believe her when she swears the paper isn’t cursed. Promising not to leave his dirty socks lying around is a small price to pay to claim back their childhood, he thinks.

At the start of October, the Aurors finally let them know that they’re about halfway done with their in-class training. This means that they are finally ( _finally_ ) included into rotas that will allow them to be paired up with experienced Aurors, and to go out onto the field with the Magical Law Enforcement Patrol. The former Gryffindors are brash and excited, Ravenclaws hastily reviewing their notes, while the Hufflepuffs make sure that no one has forgotten any of their belongings in the training rooms. They’re all split into smaller teams and units, then assigned to a senior Auror for supervision, someone who is there to show them the ropes. Three shifts a week, at first, and two days in class, until the end of November. Then, they are on full-time rotas until they get their permanent nominations in January.

Harry looks at Ron, the night before. Remembers life during the days that followed the war, back in June, when his best mate stayed up polishing his Order of Merlin, while Harry decided to dump his at the bottom of the river. Remembers the stuff that they’ve both done, too, to deserve these.

‘It’s weird, isn’t it?’ Ron states. The fire burns in the fireplace at Grimmauld; they’re the last two left awake. ‘Every day, I keep looking over my shoulder to see where Hermione’s at. Now, they’re splitting _us_ up, too. I mean, who’s going to keep you from getting killed?’ he jokes and Harry laughs, pretends that he doesn’t see that statement for what it really is. In that moment, he can’t help but think about Hermione’s speech on PTSD, about Ron’s desperation to help everyone because he couldn’t help Fred.

‘You’ve had my back since we were eleven,’ he says, setting his empty mug of tea back down on the table. Ron bursts out a real laugh when he adds: ‘Reckon you deserve a bit of a holiday.’

The task thus falls onto somebody else’s shoulders, that October. Her name, Harry finds out the next day, is Giulia. When he meets her, he notes that his new partner is quite tall, athletic, half-Italian. On the right side of her thirties, with thick, dark-brown, wavy hair, green eyes and olive skin. She was an Auror for ten years, she tells him, between ’87 and ’97. They re-integrated her just last June. ‘Threatened to give them hell if they didn’t give me my old pay back,’ she tells him. Her former partner, Dermot, was killed the day the Ministry fell. ‘My name was on one of their lists,’ she just shrugs. ‘So, I had to leave.’

On Harry’s first day, she arrives a good ten minutes late. Opens the door to the patrol car and plops herself down onto the passenger seat, barely grunts a ‘hello,’ before immediately going on to complain about people who have the bad taste to put milk in their coffees. Perhaps because of this, perhaps because _he_ doesn’t take milk in his tea, Harry immediately decides that he likes her.

Her first lesson is to teach him how to drive the patrol car. ‘I don’t know why we use them,’ she explains, honest, and Harry vaguely wonders if he should be taking notes. ‘Reckon the Ministry saw them being used by Muggles, had to prove they could do better. They like making noise, the Ministry, don’t they? Lots of sirens and shite.’

Politely, Harry hides a chuckle behind a cough. He clearly doesn’t know yet that he doesn’t need to, that Giulia’s sarcastic sense of humour is one of the things that he’ll come to appreciate the most in this world, over the next few months. That the sound of her voice is one he’ll try to never, ever forget. That in the speech that he’ll give when he makes Head Auror, over a decade later, he’ll think of her and say: ‘Okay, let’s try to not just be sirens and shite, all right?’

In the meantime, though, he just listens to her rambling on, stifling a laugh. ‘Alright, now, driving these -’ Giulia starts, stops, taking a long swig of coffee. The smell of it fills the car. ‘Driving these does _not_ mean you get your Muggle licence, okay? The number of newbies who go off and hire Muggle cars is just ridiculous. Those are two different things. This car can fly and squeeze itself into doors, _and_ become invisible. That is _not_ possible with Muggle cars, understood?’

Harry nods and, because it’s his first day, doesn’t dare say how familiar he actually is with Muggle life. Bizarrely, he feels nervous, a bit like starting school all over again. The training room was all fun and games but this _feels_ real, now, and, _you’ve killed the darkest wizard of all time_ , he tries to remind himself, _you can do this._

His hands are a bit clammy against the steering wheel.

Giulia finally puts her coffee down in the mug holder sitting between them and turns to her right, looking at him for the first time. Harry stares straight ahead. The moment her glance lands onto his features, he hears her burst out a laugh.

‘What in Merlin’s name is _that?_ ’ she asks.

Because she giggles and points at his entire self rather than at something in particular, it takes Harry a couple of seconds to understand what she’s referring to.

As Tonks had mentioned all those years ago, one of the very first things that they’ve learnt during in-class training is to change their appearance. So far, Harry’s found this to be probably the most useful thing he’s ever learnt. Since then, he’s taken up to changing his hair colour almost daily, sometimes going so far as to camouflage his scar with Muggle make-up (for some reason, nothing magical seems to work on it, not that it’s particularly surprising – he can’t help but think that Dumbledore would surely have an explanation for that). The combination sometimes almost manages to feel like he can take the target off his back, albeit for short while.

This morning, it seemed like a good idea to turn himself into a scar-less, blue-eyed, blonde, non-descript man, especially since he knew they were going to be patrolling out in the open. Instead, it just gets Giulia breaking into a somewhat hysterical fit of laughter.

‘Okay, look at me, because we need to get this out of the way,’ she instructs. Harry sighs, turns to his left to face her. ‘You’re Harry-fucking-Potter,’ she declares. _‘_ You’re _famous._ And, not, like, Puddlemere-United-Quidditch-rising-star famous, no, you’re I-killed-the-darkest-wizard-of-all-time-and-The-Prophet-follows-me-around-everywhere famous.’

In response, Harry barely suppresses a groan. She simply ignores him.

‘What you need to understand, right now, before we even leave this car park – and for the life of me, it is _bizarre_ that you haven’t understood this _yet -_ is that you _will_ get special treatment, everywhere you go, whatever you do, for the rest of your life,’ she declares. Harry draws in a breath, trying to interrupt, but she just talks over him. ‘Even you being here with me is special treatment. You haven’t taken your N.E.W.T.s, ranked fourth in your intake due to _abysmal_ Potions scores – yeah, I’ve seen them – and yet, you end up paired with _me,_ both statistically and in actual fact, the best ranking Auror in the department.’

‘Look, I never _asked_ for –’

‘I _know_ ,’ she insists, again, and seems to roll her eyes like she can’t believe how slow he’s being. ‘Kingsley trained me. Had a bit of chat about you last week, actually.’ She fakes an enigmatic look, and _ugh_ , Harry thinks, perhaps he should have been nicer to Kingsley about all that media stuff, all things considered. ‘You’re street-smart, hate the attention, have _incredible_ instincts and a _huge_ issue with authority. Now, I didn’t say _this_ to him, obviously, but fair enough, if you ask me. Up until last May, authority was more or less constantly out to kill you, no?’

And, at that, Harry, who’d opened his mouth to try and interrupt to defend himself, closes it, at a loss for something to say. He just looks at her, staring like a fish through the glass of its tank.

‘Look, my point is,’ Giulia adds, pausing: ‘This job is fucking nuts, and we’re all fucking nutters for wanting to do it,’ she tells him. Swears a lot, Harry quickly finds, both in English and in Italian, _especially_ when she’s driving. Always goes onto these long monologues, too, like whatever _she_ thinks about a matter is the most important (if not the only) thing he should consider. As he listens to her talk, though, over the next few months, he finds that he doesn’t necessarily disagree. ‘Just don’t add having to look like someone else every day on top of that, honestly, or you’ll go bonkers within months. My guess is that being _you_ is already pretty fucking bonkers to begin with.’

There is nothing to say to that, Harry figures, so he says nothing.

‘I don’t know,’ she adds after a breath and to tell the truth, he thinks he’s never actually met someone capable of saying this many words per minute. ‘Maybe instead of hiding it, we can find a way to use it. Not sure what that is, yet, but we’ll figure it out,’ she announces as though this is, indeed, not _his_ problem, but _theirs_. ‘Merlin, hiding who you are might be useful in certain specific instances but generally, I refuse to train someone who looks like one of those peroxided tossers from the Muggle telly.’

_That_ finally gets a laugh out of him that he can’t suppress. In the end, he shrugs. Mutters a reluctant, ‘Alright,’ and turns his hair back to black, his eyes back to green, and _scourgifies_ the make-up off his scar.

‘Right,’ she says. ‘ _Now_. I’m Giulia; you’re Harry. It’s nice to meet you,’ she adds, extending her hand out to him. He chuckles again, shakes her hand above the gear lever. ‘Let’s start this car, shall we?’

In October ’98, the moment he’s out of full-time training, Harry finds that he loves being an Auror. Loves the idea that this is an identity that he chose ( _Harry, the Auror_ ) rather than one that’s been forced upon him. Loves that, although the job _can_ be dangerous and does sometimes get the adrenaline pumping in his veins, it feels like a way to do what he enjoys – fighting evil – without _constantly_ dealing with an immediate threat to his own life. He loves that every case is different, that he needs to be both tough _and_ understanding, even if it’s not always his forte. He loves Giulia, her no-nonsense chats and her sense of humour. She teaches him everything she knows without a hint of competitiveness or afterthought, just because she seems to think, too, that he could make a good Auror, someday.

In the car, that autumn, they get to know each other. It occurs to Harry that it’s been years since he’s met anyone new, anyone who he didn’t grow up with and is still expected to trust. It’s scary, at first, and although she doesn’t say, he thinks that perhaps Giulia understands that. Understands that it’s hard for him to live in a world where not everyone wants to kill him. She misses Tonks, she confesses, once, and Harry can’t resist showering her with the many pictures of Teddy that his wallet now holds. He loves listening to her talk about her life, finds that there is comfort in her monologues, in the way that she learns to fill his silences, talking about the job, about her flatmates, or about the endless string of Muggle women that she seems to date.

That autumn, the sun doesn’t always shine in London but when it does, his partner makes it a little brighter. On the days when something good happens, like when he and the other new recruits participate in the big bust that takes down Rodolphus Lestrange, Harry decides that she might be right when she tells him to take whatever satisfaction he can get from the job, and forget about everything else.

Once or twice, of course, he gets told off for not following orders. One afternoon, they’re on a stakeout in front of a building where they think Rita Skeeter is hiding, trying to bring her in for questioning. One of Bathilda Bagshot’s distant relatives has finally filed a complaint alleging that she fiddled with the poor woman’s memory and Harry fights tooth and nail for Giulia and him to take over the case. Yet, that day, Harry gets restless, ends up pulling himself out of the car before anyone can stop him, in an attempt to use himself as bait to get Skeeter out. ‘I swear,’ he tells Giulia. ‘She’ll come out if I do -’

‘Harry, no, I told you to stay in the – oh, Merlin, go on then, _vaffanculo_ -’

Skeeter does come out, obviously, brandishing her wand at him like a madwoman but he quickly stuns her into inaction. Giulia crosses her arms over her chest, fakes a stern look and tries not to laugh. ‘That is _not_ what I meant when I said you should use who you are to your advantage, Harry.’

‘What _did_ you mean, then?’ he grins. She just rolls her eyes and shakes her head at him.

Of course, there are parts of the job that he doesn’t particularly like. Hermione wisely tells him that this would have happened with any job he chose. ‘It’s just that…’ he starts, tries to find words that tell her what he wants to tell her without telling her what he doesn’t want to tell her. It’s not the risks that they sometimes have to take, or the boring paperwork he was warned about. It’s - ‘There’s things I didn’t anticipate, I suppose.’

Hermione snorts. ‘When you die,’ she says, then insists: ‘ _In over a hundred years_ , I’ll get that engraved onto your tombstone. _Harry Potter_ ,’ she jokes. ‘ _And all the things I didn’t anticipate.’_

Ron chokes out a laugh next to them.

At the end of October, Giulia and he get dispatched to an incident in West Bay: dark night skies, rows and rows of little cottages on the waterfront. Giulia warns him in the car as they fly over from London (about how difficult _these_ can be, about the things that he can and cannot say). When they get on-site, Harry decides that _this_ – _this -_ is the part he hates.

He pulls the front door open and lets Giulia come through. They’re the second team of Aurors on the scene so it’s already been secured; in the living room, a man’s body lies on the floor, unmoving. He’s tall, on the heavier side, a knife plunged through his chest. From what Harry can see, he’s still breathing, two Healers already crowding around him, trying to stabilise his condition enough to move him to St Mungo’s.

Giulia turns, chats with the other Aurors for a while. It’s only then, when his gaze drifts away, that Harry finally notices _her_. A woman in her mid-thirties: she’s sitting on the floor, arms around her knees and legs bare under an oversized t-shirt (a _Harpies_ t-shirt, Harry sees and can’t help but think of -). She’s covered in blood (whose, he’s not sure) and it’s close to Hallowe’en, by then, which just makes everything worse.

The other team of Aurors stay at the scene to collect evidence while Harry and Giulia take the witch and her five-month-old baby to St Mungo’s. With the Ministry cars, the trip barely takes a couple of minutes; she’s quiet throughout it. At the hospital, the Healers help her out of her clothes and into a gown, quills expertly reporting the list of bruises and injuries over her skin, the ribs that she broke months ago, it seems, and never got sorted.

When they’re done, Harry stands outside the loo while she washes her hands. ‘She’s already been cleaned,’ one of the Mediwitches tells him with a hint of annoyance in her voice and he doesn’t bother explaining why he knows that there’s something about blood under your fingernails that just can’t be _scourgified,_ like it will always be there, no matter how many times you make yourself look away. Instead, he ignores her and escorts the woman in and out of the bathroom, gets her a cup of tea while they wait for the Healers to check on the baby.

‘I should have –’ she starts. Lots of should-have-s and could-have-s. They sit on a bench, about five inches between their legs. ‘The first time, he was drunk,’ she explains. ‘Hit me in the face and I hexed the hell out of him,’ she smiles, something sad and broken in her voice. ‘I thought it was just a mistake.’

A moment passes. She breathes, looks down at her knees. Reaches for Harry’s hand in between them, and he wonders if it could transfer the weight of her regrets onto him. He’d gladly take on that burden, if he could.

‘Then, it happened again,’ she says. ‘And again, and then he took my wand, threw it in the fire. I just –’ She closes her eyes, tears wetting her cheeks; Harry waits. With a few extra, halting sentences, she explains how that night, after a year and a half of fearing being in her own home, he tried to strangle her. Harry notices the bruises at her neck when he turns. ‘I was on the floor and I saw him going towards Aedus’ room and I just -’

She grabbed the knife, she says, didn’t know it was cursed. He launched at her, struggled; it just happened, she swears, her words tumbling again. Harry believes her, he wants to tell her, couldn’t imagine doing anything other than to believe her. 

‘I should have left,’ she says. Could-have-s and should-have-s. ‘I should have known, I should have left, I shouldn’t have -’

‘Hey -’

‘I was so scared, so, so scared - the Cruciatus curse,’ she stammers. ‘It’s – I don’t know how to explain - You wouldn’t believe -’

The air gets caught up in his throat the moment he hears her word and when Harry blinks, he can almost feel his own body shudder, like the pain and the tremors are still raw, even four years after the fact. He tells her that she doesn’t _need_ to explain, that he understands, that none of it was her fault, that there’s nothing she could have done. ‘I know,’ he says. ‘I know, I know, I know,’ as she buries her face in the crook of his shoulder, hot tears against his Ministry-issued robes. ‘It’s not your fault,’ he insists as his eyes find Giulia’s, standing opposite them in the corridor. She says nothing.

Later, they bring the woman and the baby back home. As his partner escorts the both of them back into the house, Harry gets out of the car to smoke a cigarette, his back against the side. ‘You should stop these,’ Giulia just says, the moment she gets back. He doesn’t bother telling her that he’s tried, because ‘trying isn’t the same as doing,’ she once told him. Instead, he fakes a smile, her heart just isn’t in it when she adds: ‘Kind of makes you look like a twat.’

He shakes his head, tosses his half-smoked cigarette to the ground. She slips into the driver’s seat of the car and drives back to London the Muggle way without another word. Three hours into the night, between little country roads and the M3. Harry doesn’t ask why and she lets his silence stretch as he stares out the window onto the motorway.

Around five in the morning, they finally park at the Ministry. He goes to open the door and only then does she catch his wrist. ‘ _That_ ,’ she just says. ‘ _That_ ’s how you use it – who you are. Not the kind of bollocks you pulled with Skeeter. When someone tells you they’ve been _crucio_ -ed, you’re probably one of the few people in this world who can hold their hand and say “I know.” Because, you do _know_.’

For a moment, Harry stays silent. Gazes out at the deserted car park, jaw set and glasses heavy on his nose. Something in his gut almost prevents him from blinking, as though if he closed his eyes for just a second, he’d see all the films that haunt his nightmares: Ginny writhing in pain under the Carrows’ ruthless glares, and Hermione’s screams. His own pain has always felt like it mattered less, somehow.

‘You think it’s wrong? What her husband did?’ Giulia asks. He frowns.

‘Yeah, of cou-’

‘Then, fucking say it,’ Giulia says, anger seeping through her voice and gaze burning at his side like she expects him to talk, expects an _answer_. ‘Say _something._ Because for better or for worse, people listen to you. We’ll all die and be forgotten,’ she shrugs. ‘But, _you_ won’t. Kingsley says you used to have a voice – why did you let _him_ take that from you?’

And: _did he?_ Harry freezes, body turned to ice at the sound of her words. When he closes his eyes, then, he sees Tom. Not the one from last May, just the kid in the orphanage with the dark hair and the wide eyes. At night, Harry often wonders if that child wasn’t one of the many people who should have been saved, who could have saved, somehow, if he’d been quicker, smarter, had given his life up sooner. It’s stupid, perhaps, because time doesn’t work that way, and yet the feeling of guilt is still there, coursing through his veins, watching that kid with the burning wardrobe, the same kid who Giulia says robbed him of his own words years and years later, on the grounds of all the could-have-s and should-have-s of the world. _When I killed him, I killed that kid, too,_ Harry thinks, swallows, and he feels _guilt_ , but not remorse, and: ‘I’m not sure I’m a good person,’ he admits. ‘Not sure I’m worth listening to.’

As he speaks, the words feel both familiar and foreign in his mouth, like they’ve been on the tip of his tongue for months, just waiting to find their way out. With the things he’s done, the ones he continues to fuck up every day, with Ginny, and Narcissa, why should anyone listen to him? Giulia’s mouth opens quick but he’s not sure he wants her to give him another piece of her mind. Instead, he cuts her off and asks: ‘What will happen to him? The husband, I mean.’

She stops mid-breath, seems to consider his question. ‘If he makes it, they’ll put him in jail, I suppose,’ she says, matter-of-fact. ‘Depends what case the MPS can make in front of the Wizengamot.’

‘And, does that help? Azkaban?’

‘I don’t know,’ she says and her next words both surprise him and don’t, like he always knew, somehow, that the number of words that merrily came out of her mouth was only meant to show one thing: that there were all like bales of straw, accumulations of tiny, little twigs, mistakes and successes that slowly add up to the meaning of their names. She’d told him, in passing, that she’d left Hogwarts after her O.W.L.s, only took her N.E.W.T.s in her early twenties. ‘I don’t think it’s what helped _me_ ,’ she admits.

That night, her voice fills the air of the car and for once, her sentences are short, punctuated by the way she stops to bite her lips, or stare at the ground. ‘I was fifteen when I got arrested,’ she explains. ‘I was a minor, so I didn’t do much. I _believed_ , though. Acted as the lookout while my mates broke into Muggle houses and tortured these poor people. Served time. Turned my life around, I suppose.’

Her voice dares him, it seems, to hate her for it. For a moment, Harry thinks that he will. His jaw is clenched and his fingers wrap around the wand in his pocket because the first thing he thinks of is that she isn’t much younger than his parents. That while she was doing _that_ , they were probably already hiding out in Godric’s Hollow, waiting to be murdered. But then, from the way that she speaks, he can tell that she probably hears _their_ screams in her head, too.

It’s a hard thought to reconcile, in the end, because to tell the truth, he _likes_ her, and Merlin forbid, he’s come to trust her. She’s not Snape, he thinks, who only betrayed Voldemort to save his mother, uncaring for the world around him, or the Malfoys, who turned their coats out of sheer convenience. She may have followed Voldemort at the same age as Harry was being tortured in a graveyard and yet, in light of the events of the last year, Harry’s not so sure he’s allowed to take the moral high ground. When she tells him she became an Auror so that what happened to her didn’t happen to anyone else, he almost laughs at the irony of it all.

‘You’re not a bad person, Harry,’ she tells him, then, her palms flat against her knees. ‘You’re just – a person. The kid who threatened to kill Narcissa Malfoy and _meant_ it,’ she pauses, crossing his gaze. ‘ _And_ the kid who held that woman’s hand tonight. The latter because of the former, maybe.’ Outside of the car, he notices that the dawn is breaking, shades of pink, baby blues and oranges. ‘You’ve done shit things? Own them, do better,’ she smiles, palm finding his forearm. ‘Just steer clear of the sirens and shite, yeah?’

Harry closes his eyes, that morning, for a just a moment, and it takes him a while, in 1998, but perhaps a little bit thanks to her, he finally feels like he grows into his own skin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading and thanks for all the lovely reviews after last chapter, you're all incredibly lovely :)!


	5. out of nails (tyre blows)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, hi everyone! What a month it's been! I hope you're all staying safe and reasonably sane during this never-ending (at least, as far as Ireland is concerned) lockdown. I have recently revived my tumblr (same name - @pebblysand) so if you want to check it out, I have a little more ramble-y, in depth A/N regarding this chapter up on there. I'm also gonna post in a few days about an idea for a new collection of one-shots I've had - kind of inspired by my most recent one-shot about Fleur, and for which I might need prompts - so feel free to follow me, "it [would] be like having friends" :D. 
> 
> Anyway, regarding this chapter, here are a couple of things:
> 
> [1] No major TW on this one, apart from the fact that there's slightly explicit sex scene? Ish.  
> [2] Dragots appear to be the wizarding currency of the US. I decided they had a similar exchange rate to the $ as swedish cronas. Don't ask me why.  
> [3] Mia, to me, looks like the girl from the cafe in the tube station in film 6. You know the one.  
> [4] This one is 15,898 words. I considered splitting it but didn't, so I don't know, grab yourself a cuppa or something.
> 
> Thank you so much for your comments! Trust me when I say they really make my day. I hope you enjoy this one :)!

_._

_ out of nails (tyre blows) _

.

.

.

On the 1st of November 1998, Harry stops at Grimmauld Place for breakfast on his way to work. It’s just past 6 am and the scones Kreacher’s prepared are warm and fluffy between his fingers, just out of the oven. He shakes off the remnants of a light, intermittent drizzle on the doorstep and remembers Seamus joking the other day: ‘Well, here we go. It’s November, now. Roads won’t dry up until March.’

The house is a bit of a mess, these days. They’re trying to renovate it. It was all Ron’s idea. Harry’s best mate tiptoed around the topic for a while over the past few weeks, pointing out that even after Kreacher’s quick, summary clean up this summer, there was still quite a bit to be done to truly make the house habitable. ‘Well, it’s your house, mate,’ Ron said and –

‘Yeah, because I have so much reverence for the aesthetics of the Most Ancient and Noble House of Black, have I?’ Harry laughed. Considering Sirius would probably have set the place on fire if he’d been able to, Harry thinks his godfather clearly wouldn’t have minded new furniture and a lick of paint. ‘Don’t touch his bedroom,’ Harry just says (if anything, he’d like to take care of that himself). ‘But sure, do whatever you want with the rest.’ 

Since then, their resident artists-turned-decorators, Luna and Dean, have been arguing over colour schemes and house designs while the kids who participated in the Hogwarts works over the summer have been trying to find a way to cut Mrs Black off the wall without ending up in the neighbours’ sitting room. That morning in November, when he arrives, Harry carefully steps between half-empty buckets of paint on the floor of the entrance hall, kicking a bit of leftover dust and rubble out of the way. They’re slowly progressing through the rooms, are mostly done with the ground floor by now, and when Andromeda visited with Teddy a few days ago, she even asked: ‘Merlin, is this really the same house?’

When he steps into the kitchen, the only light is produced by Hermione’s flickering petrol lamp. With all the magic in the house, getting smaller electronics to work is already a bit of struggle (Dean’s got his new mobile phone encased in layers of aluminium, which seems to help) but electricity is certainly out of the question. As usual when Harry finds her, she’s surrounded by a mess of books and parchments, buried deep into the subtleties of N.E.W.T.s-level Arithmancy. She says she likes to wake up early, get things done to have more free time to spend with Ron in the afternoons but Harry gets the very distinct feeling that in truth, she finds it just as hard to sleep through the night as he does.

‘No run this morning?’ she asks, barely glancing up at him. Her tone is slightly sarcastic. ‘God, you’re letting yourself go.’

He gives her a quiet laugh and pretends to roll his eyes, quickly reaches for one of Kreacher’s fresh pastries off a tray. Due to his horrendous sleeping habits (a couple nights ago, he remembers going to bed at 11pm and waking up at midnight, then at one, then at two, then at three, then throwing in the towel at half past four), he’s been keeping up with his jogging habit pretty consistently for the past few months, usually clocking in over five miles before the sun’s even up. The other day, Hermione joked that with all the exercising he was going to make _Witch Weekly_ ’s _Hottest Wizard Alive_ year-end list and he almost choked on his tea. ‘Hey, weren’t you the one complaining about the booze and the cigarettes last summer?’ he kind of joked but also kind of didn’t and _she_ clearly didn’t find it funny.

This morning, he’s already wearing a clean set of Auror robes when he stops by, though, rather than his usual combination of trainers and tracksuit bottoms. ‘Meeting with Kingsley before work.’ As he speaks, he turns and runs the tap, fills the kettle.

‘Decision made, then?’ she asks.

Harry nods, leaning back against the worktop, bum pressing against the edge. He sets the kettle on the stove, quickly lights a fire under it with his wand. Within seconds, the water starts quietly simmering. Hermione smiles.

‘About time,’ she says, sounding like pride and a challenge in equal amounts. ‘All of fifth year, I seem to recall you telling your version of the story, over and over, never giving up until people listened.’

‘Things have changed -’

She raises a curious eyebrow at that. ‘Have they?’

Right before the kettle whistles, he pulls it off the stove.

Perhaps no, he thinks. Perhaps they haven’t – not _really._ They’ve been through a war, made it out alive and yet, Narcissa Malfoy and her people are still spreading lies about him in the press. From Hermione to Ginny, _Witch Weekly_ still seems to believe it’s fair game to call the girls in his life sluts for every finger they move. It’s only really been a few days but the moment Giulia said ‘You used to have a voice, why did you let _him_ take that away from you,’ the other night in the patrol car, it was like a switch flicked in his head. Things just can’t go on like this forever, can they? It’s probably time to start fighting back, whatever the hell that means.

For a few minutes that morning, he watches Hermione as she works in silence, rain slowly tapping against the window. Wordlessly, Harry drops tea bags into a couple of mugs and waits for the hot water to infuse before scooping them out. On the table, he lays a cup down for her, careful not to spill anything over her collection of books and parchments. Leans back against the worktop again; it strangely reminds him of their Hogwarts days, of Ron and he leaving her to it, escaping to play Quidditch outside, regardless of the lashing rain.

‘You alright, though?’ she asks him a few minutes later, quietly, in the semi-darkness that encircles them. The dim flame flickers in her eyes. ‘Yesterday…’

Harry looks away, half-shrugging, half-nodding, and it’s not a lie - not _exactly._ Maybe, that’s the annoying thing about it: that Hallowe’en’s just a day. A day that comes and goes every year with his parents still dead and buried. Muggles party in the streets and shout drunken songs, dress like wizards and light fireworks that blow their hands off. The shops fill their windows with pumpkins and zombies, and little, dangling skeletons.

Yesterday, he switched his day off with Ron. Apparated out to Godric’s Hollow. The rain fell - endless, all day - skies dark and low like autumn when winter leads the way. Harry walked the streets, grabbed a bite to eat, bought heathers instead of lilies for his parents’ grave. He doesn’t know how to conjure arrangements up – not as well as Hermione does, at any rate – and there is something more permanent about potted plants, he decided. Perennials, flowers that won’t fade or die with the days that pass, with the time that keeps flying away.

In the graveyard, he promised himself that he’d come by every year - no more than that. Every time he looks at their headstone, feels the hard ground underneath the soles of his trainers, there is and will always be a part of him that _aches_. A part of him that considers he could just sit here, lie here, forever, with them, and be content. It’s the part of him that kind of regrets dropping the stone in the forest, the part of him that sometimes still dreams about going to look for it. He pictures himself going insane over it – white, thinning hair and mad-scientist look – combing inch after inch of dirt until Death finally does take pity on him. The fact that he promised Dumbledore he wouldn’t go down that rabbit hole doesn’t mean that he doesn’t _think_ about it, every fucking day, like the shadow of a moment spent wondering why his parents couldn’t belong in this world for _just_ a little while longer. Every time he leaves Godric’s Hollow, noise rings in his ears like his mother’s voice calling him brave. 

‘You must miss them,’ people often say and sometimes, in their mouths, it almost sounds like an injunction, like: you _must_ miss them because anything else would be inconceivable. It makes his breath catch in his throat and he knows that he keeps quiet the fact he _doesn’t_ , that it’s more complicated than that. You can’t really _miss_ something you’ve never had. All he misses is an idea, an ideal, maybe. Yet, it doesn’t mean that his chest will ever stop feeling torn apart every time he looks at the dates, neatly scripted on the white marble of their headstone, knowing that between the day he was born and the day they died, there was a fifteen-month overlap. The only memory he’s ever held from that is a flash of green light.

_I wish you were here_ , is a more accurate statement. _I wish you were here_ _and I wish you’d lived. I wish I knew you, and I wish we’d met. I wish we’d talked, I wish we’d hugged, I wish you’d seen the end of the war. I miss you in a weird way, like something that’s all in my head._

He looks at Hermione, that morning, and observes: ‘They’ve been dead a long time.’

She bites her lip before asking. Tomorrow, the Battle of Hogwarts will be six months old. ‘Does that change anything?’

And, when Harry catches her gaze, it’s almost funny (in a really, really sad way) how he’d never fancied himself as a grief counsellor and yet here they are, aren’t they? She’s asking _him_ because he knows, knows that there is guilt in that, too, in the idea that one day, they might actually heal, stop thinking about it, about _them,_ every minute of every day. They want to feel better, they really do, but then Harry also still remembers the first time he made it through to the evening without having thought of Sirius once. It felt almost like a betrayal, like Peter had won. ‘Yeah,’ he nods. Never wants to lie to her and Ron about the important stuff so he tells her the truth. ‘It does, actually.’

Later that morning, the Ministry’s corridors are deserted when he makes it to Kingsley’s office. It’s a Sunday before seven o’clock and yet, the Minister didn’t even bat an eyelid when Harry suggested a meet. They’ve all been working around the clock these past few months; one very long, endless blur, it sometimes seems. ‘What’s going on, Harry?’ Kingsley asks, quickly. Behind him, the large, enchanted windows of the office reflect the sun rising over London, skies tinted soft blues and pinks.

Harry takes a deep breath, lets the words escape his mouth before he can overthink them. ‘I’ll do the interview,’ he says.

For a second, Kingsley just stares. _Yes,_ Harry thinks. _I’m finally doing the thing you’ve been berating me to do for months – better late than never, eh?_

Then, the Minister laughs.

They quickly turn to logistics. It’ll be scheduled on this side of Christmas (before the Death Eater trials start in January) so as not to ‘blur the message.’ When they get to the question of who, though, Harry just says: ‘Not the _Prophet.’_

Kingsley smirks. ‘Well, not the _Quibbler,_ either.’

For a moment, they just _look_ at each other. Knowing that this is a negotiation, Harry doesn’t say that although he _understands_ \- water, bridges, and all that – the prospect of spending time with Xenophilius Lovegood also wouldn’t fill him with too much joy.

‘At this juncture…’ Kingsley chuckles a bit, finally glancing away. ‘Well, there’s always the _Standard_ but honestly, I’m not sure they’d have the backbone.’ It’s still bizarre, to Harry, how much thought seems to have to go into this. ‘How would you feel about foreign press, actually?’ the Minister says, suddenly looking up. ‘Could be a more neutral perspective. We’ve had a few requests. I could send you some names.’

When Harry turns the matter over in his head and honestly can’t think of a reason why not, he nods. Kingsley smiles.

‘Great. That settles it, then.’

At work, that month, Ron and he are still in the training room half the time and working on shifts with their respective partners the rest. After the emergency dispatch at the scene last October, the domestic case that Giulia and he were working on has now escalated into an investigation surrounding cursed magical artefacts illegally imported from South East Asia onto the island. The cursed knife that the husband ended up being stabbed with (he survived, for better or for worse) wasn’t officially registered with the dedicated ministerial office. When they question him about it, the man claims that he bought it in a Muggle shop not knowing it was cursed (as if). Where? ‘I don’t know, somewhere ’round.’ Harry and Giulia thus spend the next few days going through pages and pages of Wizengamot voting records (starting with Devon and Dorset), trying to find a Muggle retail shop owner who is either a wizard or might have family in the wizarding world and could _possibly_ fit the generic description given of a ‘short, bald paki’ (yes, because, of course, on top of beating up his wife, the guy’s also a racist – Giulia says ‘being a dick’ is often comes as a package). Overall, more than a needle in a haystack, it’s a needle in a fucking ocean, as far as Harry is concerned, and combing through feet and feet of lined parchment is _also_ not one of the parts of the job he particularly favours.

It’s a couple of days before Kingsley finally comes through regarding the interview. In the interoffice memo that eventually lands on Harry’s desk, the Minister apologises for the delay ( _had to consult with the Department of Information, first)_ and includes a tidy list of names for Harry’s careful consideration. It includes the hosts of an Australian radio show, a solo journalist writing for a German newspaper, and a couple of American freelancers who seem to work for a number of magazines. ‘So, you really _are_ doing it?’ Giulia asks. She’s eyeing him over the mess that their combined desks has become (‘One day, they’ll pair me up with someone who’s actually organised,’ she’d said, once), over the pictures frames she’s also lined up on her side. Her mates, her parents and her brother. ‘Who knew the wizarding world would someday have _me_ to thank for getting the famous Harry Potter to speak up publicly?’ Harry rolls his eyes, but also can’t help but laugh. ‘So, how are you going to pick?’ she wonders.

He shrugs. ‘Toss a Knut, I suppose?’

If he asks Hermione or Kingsley, he’s afraid they’ll say it’d better be his decision, which won’t be much help. Giulia laughs and, ‘Wait a few more years,’ she says. ‘And you might even get your face on those Knuts if you play the game well.’ 

Harry grins. ‘For killing Voldemort, I deserve my face on a Galleon, at the very least.’

Jokes aside, though, while he _is_ determined to speak, he’s not sure what he wants to say, yet. Kingsley’s offered him interview prep that he’s declined (after all, he’s always been at his best when acting on the spot) and really, how hard can it be? They’ll ask questions; he’ll answer. Trying to hide from it all isn’t working – clearly - and if he’s going to be blamed either way, Harry might as well be blamed for doing _something,_ rather than not. At least, give his version of events. Openly thank Ron and Hermione, talk about Neville, Luna and Ginny’s work with the children’s foundation. It may not be much but if he can cut down on the speculation that currently surrounds him in the press, maybe they might focus on some of the more important stuff. 

As the days pass, that November, he continues to split his time between home, work, and Teddy. On the fifth (the date is now forever carved into his brain), he picks the little one up from the Weasleys’. Molly’s looked after him all morning and threatened to force food down Harry’s throat if he didn’t stay over for a late lunch at the end of his shift. She’s picking his godson off the floor while Harry cleans out the dishes (‘Please, let me at least do this –’) when, while in Molly’s arms, Teddy babbles softly.

‘Ah-eeeee,’ once. Then, again. ‘Ah-eeee.’

Harry’s still washing the dishes, completely oblivious, when Molly walks over to him. In her arms, Teddy’s hair’s turned black – he smiles, content, and points, again. ‘Ah-eee.’

‘I think he’s calling you,’ Molly says.

(Fifteen years later, on Teddy’s birthday, Ron teases: ‘Mum says Harry was so happy he cried when you first said his name.’

‘I did _not.’_

Alright, yeah, he _totally_ did.)

Over the next few days, Giulia mercilessly teases him about the smile that seems to permanently reside on his face but in truth, Harry doesn’t even care. _Hesaidmyname-hesaidmyname-hesaidmyname_ plays on loop in his head, and Merlin, that little bundle of joy really _is_ capable of making everything in the world go right sometimes, isn’t he? The following nights, once he hands Teddy over to Andromeda, Harry just sits on the stairs in front of his building, smokes cigarettes and smiles.

It is a few days later when, on one of those evenings, the front door suddenly opens behind him. He gives a little start but doesn’t reach for his wand - hasn’t in a long time. Since last summer, he’s grown accustomed to the noises that his little corner of London makes. There are the ones that belong to the streets, the neighbours, creaking stairs and open windows. _This_ is Mia, he knows, the girl who lives on the ground floor. There’s the way she talks (loud, Northern), the way she moves; Harry’s got it memorised and doesn’t even have to look.

Unfortunately, over the summer, Ginny had encouraged (okay, maybe forced) him to get to know his neighbours. ‘It’s what people do!’ she’d told him. This has turned out to be slightly inconvenient, in the long run, because now, every time he passes them in the corridors, he’s stuck chatting to the young couple on the first floor about their new-born baby for a few minutes. To Mia about her fashion studies, or her mum back up in Manchester. A few weeks ago, she’d obviously noted that, ‘Ginger’s gone, eh?’ giving him a slightly pitying smile which frankly hadn’t done much to lift Harry’s spirits. He’d nodded, sad, and quickly retreated to his flat.

‘Well, you look happy,’ she tells him, now _._ A couple of months have passed and while he still misses Ginny like a piece of his soul, it’s funny, maybe, that due to Teddy, the last few days have actually not been _as_ bad. 

‘My godson said my name for the first time,’ he says because when it comes to Teddy, pride and love just seem to push the silliest confessions out of his mouth.

When she responds, she grins but doesn’t mock. ‘Oh, the little -’ Harry nods. He’s had the baby over to his a few nights so far, must have passed her in the hall. ‘That is _so_ cute.’

Quickly, they get talking. She asks if she can scrounge a cigarette off him and sits down on the stairs as he slides over a lighter and pack in her direction. She’s early meeting some mates for a pint, she explains, and, ‘Me mum’s pregnant,’ she tells him, rather bluntly. He raises a curious eyebrow. ‘She was sixteen when she ‘ad me. ’S remarried now, with this lad – I mean, it’s funny, all my friends say “that must be so _odd_ ,” which it _is_ \- I s’ppose we’ll have what, a nineteen, twenty-year age difference? But, then, I don’t know. It’s exciting, isn’t it? Is _that_ weird?’ she smiles.

He supposes it _could_ be a bit weird, _yes_ , but then his own life is such a fucking shit show, right now, that he’s not one to judge. A cloud of smoke fills the air between them and it’s bizarre how he actually knows, can identify _exactly_ what is happening, but somehow, still lets it happen. Harry feels her arm brush against his as she hands him the pack of cigarettes back, notices that she’s wearing a rather plain, white t-shirt, a bomber jacket and a long, black skirt that flows over the bare skin of her legs as well as a chunky pair of Doc Martens. Her hair is pulled back in a bun, make-up minimal, and the fact that he _notices_ all these things is certainly worth a mention.

‘You working tonight?’ she asks him, maybe ten, fifteen minutes later. She’s tossed the stub of her cigarette to the floor, gets up to her feet; he notices her skirt rides up and reveals a glimpse of her calf. He shakes his head ‘no’ and loosely wonders what it would feel like to run his fingertips along her skin.

(She asked what he did for a living, a few weeks back, and hastily put out her joint when he said ‘police.’ ‘I mean, what do _you_ tell Muggles?’ he asked Giulia, afterwards, knowing that she mostly dates Muggle women and she puffed out a laugh and said –

‘Well, not _that._ ’)

So, that November, he finally, properly, _notices_ Mia. She’s been a mention, someone hovering in the background of his life for a few months, now, but that night, he sees her. Notices that her smile is generous and kind, that her skin and eyes are dark, that she wears her hair curly and natural. That she’s tall, thin, small chested. Does _not_ have long, silky hair, or freckles, or a love for Quidditch and very much _isn’t_ his type. That night, a wet, drizzling rain starts to fall over them again and still, when Mia asks: ‘Hey, do you want to come to the pub, actually? We’re not going out-out, I don’t think, just -’

Harry says: ‘Yeah, why not?’

He doesn’t know why it happens on that particular evening, to tell the truth, but he knows why it happens, in general. It happens because she’s nice. Because she’s a girl. Because _she_ notices _him,_ too, and because she does turn out to have quite a good sense of humour. Because she’s a Muggle and doesn’t know that his parents are dead, or that he fought in a war, or that he doesn’t really have _any_ idea what he’s supposed to do with his life, now. It happens because she’s _there,_ and because Ginny’s _gone_ and yeah, alright, maybe because he feels rather bloody, fucking lonely.

At the pub, she introduces him as her neighbour and it’s probably the most normal thing he’s ever been introduced as. Quickly, he realises that Mia is kind of person who will be the life of every party she’ll ever attend; there’s something almost fascinating about watching her, the way she manages to both always stick to his side but _also_ show interest in what her friends are telling her. When her mates chuckle at her jokes, the sound is loud and genuine, pure, and _they_ haven’t fought in wars. Harry sees Mia and the way she loves (everyone and everything, without needing a reason to, from the loud music in her ears to the sticky floors under her heels). In his head, he sorts her into Hufflepuff and thinks he kind of likes it.

Students who swear they won’t go ‘out-out’ on a Thursday night never follow through so at around eleven, they all pile up in a couple of cabs on their way to a club in East London. Mia dances close; Harry mostly watches but around three in the morning, they share another taxi home. The fact that they live in the same building _could_ have been a good excuse, Harry supposes, except that, by that point of the night, they don’t really need one. He’s already kissed her, trailed his fingers up her thighs in the club (loud music, smoke; he managed to just smile and not _think)_ so it’s not exactly a surprise when he follows her down the stairs to her flat instead of going up to his. He kind of hates himself for the thought but to be honest, it’s been over two months since he’s last had sex and well, she’s _offering._

It’s – _nice_. He settles on the adjective retrospectively and refuses to think anything else. As though admitting to himself that he properly enjoys it, leans into the feeling of Mia’s fingers against his chest, her short breaths above him, the taste of her skin, would be some sort of sin. _She’s dumped you, you idiot,_ he tries to remind himself. _Ginny’s dumped you, so forget about her and stop feeling like you’re a cheat. You’re_ not _._ When he comes, he makes sure Mia does, too, fingers caressing her clit. Once they’re done, he pulls the condom off and throws it in the bin and thinks: _right, this is it, then. Move on with your life, mate._

Afterwards, she goes to the loo wearing his shirt and pads back with a glass of water in her hand. ‘I’m the first, right?’ she asks. ‘Since her, I mean.’

Harry looks at her in the dark and isn’t sure what to say to _that_. First, because to tell the truth, she’s not only the first _since_ Ginny, she’s the first who _isn’t_ Ginny, full stop, and he’s pretty sure that’s something he’d rather keep to himself. Second, because, well, he’s still so fucking in love with his ex that he kind of thought of her when he came, and _that,_ frankly, was disturbing enough. He probably stays quiet for too long.

‘’S alright,’ she adds, slipping back into bed. She smiles, empathetic but not sad. ‘When I broke up with my ex, it took me a good six months to get over it.’

Early morning confessions, except neither of them is drunk – he’s just so fucking tired, these days. ‘I don’t think I’ll ever get over it,’ he admits. 

Her laugh is loud, next to him. ‘Yep,’ she says and drops a kiss to his lips. Before he can say anything else, Harry feels her mouth trailing down his neck, the fabric of the shirt thrown over her shoulders brushing against his skin – her hand reaches under the waistband of his boxers and _God,_ he’s already half-hard again. Lazy, his palm finds the bare skin above her hip. ‘That’s _exactly_ how it felt.’

It later occurs to him that it could have ended there, with Mia. A one-night-stand that, overall, he doesn’t _really_ think was a mistake, no matter how much time he spends trying to convince himself otherwise. The thing is, though: it doesn’t. Instead, after he leaves her flat that morning to head into work, it takes a couple of days for them to run into each other again. When they do, she’s taking the bins out and stops next to him in front of their building, garbage bag in hand. She’s just wearing a pair of flare jeans and a jumper. Harry consciously makes himself look away.

‘Well, this is awkward,’ she says.

He finds himself leaning back against the gate in front of their building. When he looks at her again, he finds her smiling. ‘Is it?’ he asks her.

He _asks_ because he’s eighteen and has _no_ experience with this, whatsoever. It may be awkward, it may not be, he can’t tell how he’s supposed to feel, right this minute. She laughs, hums. ‘Yeah, maybe it’s not, actually.’

They don’t see each other on a regular schedule. Just sometimes, when they both want to. She’s a Muggle so to her, he’s just Harry, her cute neighbour, and it’s bizarre how liberating that is. She doesn’t know about magic, or the people he’s lost, or even that he quite literally died, just a few months ago. When she asks about his scars, he says that he got them in a car accident, says that it killed his parents and leaves it at that. ‘I’m sorry,’ she says and he tells her the same thing he told Hermione, a few days back.

‘It’s fine. They’ve been dead a long time.’

As the days get darker, Mia burns scented candles in her flat - one that allegedly smells like France (like cigarettes, cinnamon and croissants) - and sometimes, the both of them just sit and watch TV together, laughing at old films and fighting over a bowl of crisps. Harry _would_ feel guilty about not being in love with her but, ‘I don’t know how much longer I’ll be here, anyway,’ she reminds him, often. She’s been applying to internships with all of these fashion brands he’s never heard of, in Paris. ‘This is just nice while it lasts, Harry.’

It may make him sound like a bit of a dick, but he kind of agrees.

For the first few weeks of this, though, he doesn’t tell a soul. The only people he’d ever consider telling are Ron and Hermione and he already knows what their reactions would be. _She_ would give him a lecture about finding a girl who specifically caters to his unwillingness to commit, which would then spiral into an argument about the fact that he _was_ ready to commit to Ginny, and _see_ how that blew up in his face, so – Ron would just _stare_ , say something along the lines of _but, you were dating my sister,_ and Merlin, Harry’s not ready for that either. Also, there’s a quiet kind of relief in having a part of his life be just truly _his._ This thing with Mia – whatever it is – it exists for itself, almost in a vacuum, unpolluted by _everything else._ It’s something he can do, someone he can touch without them instantly becoming public property. The hours he spends with her, they’re quiet, hours during which he doesn’t have to care about anyone else.

Eventually, Giulia soon finds out about it, though. That day, the both of them are in Sussex, chasing a lead on their Class A trafficking case. They’re checking out a shop in Eastbourne (frankly, with limited hopes of this being the one) but strangely, Harry notices something that makes him change his mind _._ The place is filled with random Muggle antiques and centuries-old crap but there’s an energy in the air that he can’t quite place. Giulia asks the owner a couple of questions, acting as though she’s considering buying one of the necklaces, but Harry keeps his fingers wrapped around his wand the whole time.

They make their way out and back to the car. ‘I think he recognised me,’ he just says.

She frowns. ‘What do you mean? He barely -’

‘Trust me,’ he says. ‘I know when people recognise me -’

She chuckles. ‘Ah, Mr Harry, the Hero - can’t stand people _not_ recognising him, can he?’

He half-laughs, half-rolls his eyes but stands his ground. She walks around the car towards the driver’s side. Over the roof, he catches her gaze. ‘I swear, he did the look thing.’

‘The -’

‘This,’ he tells her. For a moment, he just stares into her face, silent, then lets his glance flick up to her forehead.

‘What in Merlin’s name -’

The palm of his glove laid flat against the roof of the car. They’re having a dry, cold but sunny morning – closer to winter than it is to autumn. ‘It’s a thing that people do when they’re not sure,’ he explains, can see his breath in the air. ‘Like, they’ve seen my picture in the paper and all, but they’ve never seen me in real life, you know? So, they think: “Oh, this guy really looks like Harry Potter,” then, they glance up at _this_ ,’ he adds and pulls up his hair to point to his scar, before letting it back down. ‘Then, they do this sort of _look,_ like: “Oh, Merlin, it _is_ Harry Potter!”’

For a moment, she looks at him somewhat dumbfounded in the middle of the street. Harry sees a couple of cars pass behind her. Eventually, again, she laughs. ‘ _Right,_ ’ she declares and suddenly pulls the car door open. The Muggle man in the car coming up the road just behind them hoots his horn and lowers his window, shouting at her to ‘bloody _look!’;_ in response, she turns around and throws him an outraged, ‘Oi, _cretino!_ ’ and another string of Italian curse words that Harry hasn’t picked up on, yet. The man drives away hooting his horn again and Harry finds her back smiling at him a second later like nothing’s happened. ‘So, you reckon he’s full of shit?’ she says.

‘I’d say so, yeah.’

She sighs. ‘Alright. Let’s radio dispatch, see if they can send another unit to tail him. He’s seen our faces,’ she observes. They’ve known each other long enough that Harry doesn’t bother pointing out that they _could_ probably change their appearances because it’s almost noon and he knows why Giulia doesn’t want to do _that_ , now. ‘Anyway,’ she adds, quick, getting into the car. ‘I’m fucking _starving_.’

They stop at a small restaurant, sit at a tiny table with their orders on a tray. Giulia – for the past two weeks – has been hell-bent on ordering salads everywhere they go despite the truly foul mood this seems to put her in. Her flatmate’s getting married over New Year’s and from the information that Harry’s managed to gather listening one of her many infamous monologues, dresses have been purchased – dresses that do not currently fit. When he suggested enlarging hers with magic, Giulia looked at him like he was a complete lunatic so he never made any further comment.

(In the end, of course, she never goes to that wedding, but that’s kind of beside the point.)

That day, she glares at him as he bites into his sandwich. ‘Why is it that you eat so much and still look like,’ she starts, frowns; he throws her a curious look. ‘Like, I don’t know. All … _boy,’_ she says. ‘And _muscle.’_

She says that like men are a completely foreign concept, to her, and Harry lets out a bit of a laugh. ‘I didn’t eat for a _year_ ,’ he reminds her, pauses for another bite. ‘Plus, I run five or six miles almost every day.’

She glares at him, then at her plate. ‘There is _that_ , I suppose.’

‘Played Quidditch, too,’ he adds. It may be adding insult to injury, here, but hey, she does take the piss out of him plenty, too. He touches his lips to a paper napkin. She looks up from her salad.

‘ _Did you?_ ’ she asks, a look of genuine surprise on her face. ‘I didn’t know that! Why did I not know that?’ she grins. He likes that she doesn’t seem to read the press much, either. ‘Chaser?’

Mouth full, he shakes his head. Swallows. ‘Seeker. My dad did, too. Ginny played both,’ he adds, not quite sure why. It seems that now that he’s seeing Mia, he thinks about her even more, strangely enough. ‘Well, mostly Chaser but she replaced me whenever I’d get stuck in detention -’

‘-Which happened quite often, I imagine?’

He rolls his eyes and decides not to dignify _that_ with an answer. ‘It’s easier to find Chasers than Seekers, last minute. Or, at least it was for Gryffindor, anyway.’

‘You didn’t want to play pro?’ she asks, then bites on another mouthful of rocket. She hides it well but he knows he’s just caught her interest - rarely ever volunteers information about Ginny, or his family. This is nice, though. He trusts her, always has, for some reason. 

‘Considered it,’ he shrugs. ‘But honestly, it was a hobby more than anything else. I mean, I love Quidditch, don’t get me wrong, but Ginny wants to play pro and I’ve seen how much she trains. Never wanted to put that much effort into it.’ Giulia laughs like, _how surprising?_ True, he’s never been the most dedicated pupil in the world. ‘I don’t know, it was just fun, you know? Once McGonagall mentioned I could become an Auror, that was _it,_ I suppose.’

‘Yeah, I get that,’ she says, nods. Pushes a piece of beetroot about her plate. ‘I think I’d quite have liked to play, maybe, at least _try,_ ’ she tells him, shrugs. ‘Slytherin didn’t allow girls onto the team in my time, though, so that was kind of that.’

He catches her gaze, then, and although he’s had _suspicions_ about what her house might have been, it’s the first time she’s actually acknowledged it aloud. It’s funny how, just a few years ago, it would have been _huge_ , to him, to be friends with a _Slytherin_. Now, he barely finds it strange, how little he cares _._

A war’s come and gone, he supposes.

Then, out of the blue, Giulia asks: ‘So, tell me,’ she pauses for a sip of water. ‘What were you doing in a bar in Soho, yesterday, anyway? And, most importantly, who’s the _very_ attractive Muggle girl who had her hand on your arse the whole time?’

_Ugh. Oh, God._ Between an _embarrassing_ blush, a coughing fit and the fact that he almost _does_ choke mid-bite _,_ it takes Harry a bit to even recover enough to _talk,_ let alone answer her question. While he busies himself chugging down his full glass of water, she explains that she was on date when she saw him and is _very_ curious as to who Mia is. For a moment, he rolls his eyes, then sets his glasses down in an attempt to hide his face in his hands.

To be honest, though, Giulia finding out probably wasn’t his worst-case scenario. She’s clearly not going to go and sell his secrets to the _Prophet_ (or else, she would have done so a long time ago) and out of everyone he knows, she’s probably the person who, beyond a general desire to take the piss, gives the least amount of fucks about who he’s decided to shag. When he concedes defeat and admits that the girl is his Muggle neighbour, though, Giulia _disgustingly_ winks at him and says: ‘Well, now, that’s _convenient._ Just have to walk down the stairs for a quick - _’_

She makes a rather obscene gesture, then, and Harry just groans and hides behind his palms again.

‘D’you like her, though?’ Giulia later asks. Harry sighs. ‘Right, let me guess,’ she smirks. ‘Getting a bit of _attention_ feels nice but you’re not in love and she’s not Ginny Weasley, and you’re feeling guilty that you even like it, am I wrong?’ 

Harry says nothing but considers that _no_ , Giulia is _not_ wrong, as a matter of fact, it’s a pretty accurate picture of the current situation. She chuckles again at the look on his face.

‘You don’t have to marry everyone you sleep with, Harry. It’s called being young.’

They pay for their meals, make their way back to the car when, out of nowhere, Harry’s stomach drops. A thought occurs to him and suddenly, it’s like he can’t get it out of his head. He follows her, crosses the road almost on autopilot and tries to run through his memories of last night. He remembers the pub quite clearly, there was a large sign behind the bar that spelled out the word ‘beer’ but his surroundings are blurred, and –

‘What is it?’ Giulia asks.

They’re in the car, now. His thoughts were running so fast he’d barely noticed. ‘I didn’t see you,’ he says. ‘Last night, I -’

At first, she chuckles. ‘I mean, I’d be offended, but –’

‘No, I -’ he says, quickly cutting her off, the muscles tense in his jaw. He remembers: the month of June, hotel lobbies and Hermione calling him jumpy. ‘You could have been _anybody_ ,’ he adds. ‘I didn’t see you.’

And, for months, his ability to survive was contingent on his ability (and that of Ron and Hermione) to identify threats. To watch emergency exits, shop windows, be hyper aware of their surroundings at all times. A bar filled with innocent Muggles – _Mia_ – and someone he knew, someone _magical_ came in, and Harry didn’t notice. They could have been attacked, he thinks, could have –

‘Hey,’ Giulia interrupts. ‘I’m a crap legilimens but even _I_ can hear you thinking.’ For a moment, he sets his jaw, says nothing. ‘Harry -’

‘Fuck, I should have -’

‘Hey, you can’t blame yourself for not knowing something you’ve never properly learnt,’ she sighs. ‘I mean, that kind of high-level surveillance stuff, they don’t even teach it to you unless you make one of the high-risk units. Terrorism, hit-wizards, trafficking, that kind of thing,’ she pauses for breath. He opens his mouth to object, but - ‘Maybe, you’re right, though. You being you, you might want to learn,’ she adds. ‘And, you _know_ some of it already, don’t think I haven’t noticed. I’ve seen the way you watch people, the way in, the way out, but you’re _messy_ , self-taught; _that_ is how you miss things. You noticed that man recognising you, earlier, but you didn’t see me yesterday. You’re right, that _is_ a bit worrying. So, now,’ she smiles, catches his gaze. ‘Either you sit here and panic or …’

For a moment, he’s not sure what to say and -

‘You _ask,_ Harry _._ Because in case you haven’t noticed, you _do_ happen to have a partner who’s the highest ranking Auror in the building _and_ actually knows all that shite. Funny, eh, how these things happen,’ she laughs. ‘I mean, if you want me to teach you, of course.’

She holds his gaze. For a second, he can’t find his words. Then, he can’t say yes fast enough.

Around the 20th of November, that year, Kingsley starts harassing him about the interview again. Three different memos land on Harry’s desk over the course of that week, urging him to ‘just pick someone or I will.’ In a desperate attempt to get the man off his back, Harry, rather reluctantly, resorts to owling Hermione. In response, she sends him a five-foot-long _essay_ on each of the reporters’ careers and achievements to date, as though _that_ was going help him choose (he’s _seriously_ considering simply tossing a coin, now). Ron, who seems reluctant to be pulled into this debate helpfully states: ‘I don’t know, mate. They all sound fine,’ and Harry kind of rolls his eyes but also thinks the same. Over lunch on the South Bank that Sunday, he looks at Hermione across the table and says –

‘Alright. Wand to your face, who would you choose?’

Ron immediately looks up, clearly scandalised by the sudden, suggested threat to Hermione’s life but Hermione herself just sighs. ‘Well, _again_ , I think it should be your decision _but_ -’ she says, pushing the bit of lettuce that came with her burger around her plate. ‘Wand to my face, I’d pick the second American, Laura Gellman. She said in her letter she’d negotiated a contract with _The Owl_ for this, and they’re a good magazine. She might be tough, though, from what I’ve seen, she really does her research.’ She catches Harry’s look. ‘She’ll probably come with Ed Trappoy, her photographer, but he checks out, too. Plus,’ Hermione adds, ‘She’s the only Muggleborn on the list.’

_That_ is an interesting factor to take into consideration, Harry thinks, but one that he kind of agrees with. He looks at Ron. ‘What Hermione said?’

‘Brilliant, then. I’ll tell Kingsley.’

Hermione kind of rolls her eyes but doesn’t fight him. They spend the rest of the afternoon just the three of them, Apparate back to Harry’s flat with a pack of Muggle beer and Harry’s insistence that Ron at least _try_ a sip out of his can of Coke (‘It tastes like dragon pox potion, I swear!’). Hermione launches into an explanation of Coca-Cola, cocaine, Muggle medicine and father Christmas and all Harry can really think is that _God,_ does he love the both them.

Ultimately, the interview gets scheduled for the 14th of December. Until then, the only change that Harry really notices in his daily life is that Giulia’s intensive surveillance training now sets his fucking teeth on edge. He knows that he’s asked for it, knows that it is _necessary,_ but it doesn’t mean he _likes_ it. She teaches him practically, through hypos, questions, profiling and rooms full of people. ‘Here,’ she says. ‘Who’s most likely to be a threat?’ Who’s really a Muggle, who’s pretending to be? Who comes in, who comes out, how many people around them at any given time? Quickest exit? Quickest response, spell, way to evacuate? Everywhere, every day. Sometimes, they’ll be entering a café for a snack and she’ll say: ‘Okay, the man sitting at six o’clock, behind you. What does he look like?’

It’s taxing, exhausting and at first, really frustrating because he’s got no fucking clue. Then, slowly, she teaches him to observe. Mirrors, windows, wards, spells. At the Ministry, in the breakroom, even. ‘Say, the woman over there attacks you, right now, what do you do?’ Harry follows her look and –

‘She’s the mail lady,’ he frowns. ‘She’s here every day.’

‘Yeah, great cover, no one would ever suspect her,’ she laughs. ‘Now, _what do you do?_ ’

For weeks, Giulia’s so relentless with him that he honestly starts running facial recognition spells in his _sleep._ Strangely, though, Harry finds that for all the paranoia it should entail, the whole process actually seems to calm him. Gradually, he feels more in control of his surroundings, less nervous about the world and the people that seem to occupy it. Having the information, knowing what to do, who to trust, how he would act in an emergency actually manages to steady the tremors in his hands a lot more than the empty reassurances that he’s sometimes heard. For the first time in his life, he actually feels _prepared_. Wishes someone had taught him all of this before he had to go on the run. Things might have been slightly easier, then, for them all.

Of course, it doesn’t mean that he doesn’t snap at Giulia, a couple of times, during those few weeks. She’s pushing him like he’s never been pushed before, constantly, so he supposes it comes with the territory. One Sunday afternoon, Ron, Seamus and the both of them are all grabbing a late lunch at the Ministry, the only ones left in the cafeteria. When Seamus leaves the room for the loo, Ron gets up to go refill their carafe of water. Giulia throws Harry a _look_. ‘Go on, now. Who’s the threat?’

His look finds Ron’s back, his best mate oblivious, before finding hers again. ‘No,’ he says.

She smirks. ‘Right, you’re a Gryffindor, you stand up for your mates, appreciate it, thanks. Now, again, who’s the most likely threat?’

Arms crossed over his chest, Harry just shakes her head at her. Ron is heading back towards them, now, so he hisses: ‘No. I trust him with my life. I trust you with my life. _No._ ’

He _refuses_ to ever think about it again until a couple of nights later. They’re on the rota for the Sussex stakeout (they’ve found two other stores selling magical contraband, fronting as Muggle shops – it’s a whole _operation,_ now) and Giulia keeps eyeing him. She says _nothing_ , of course, knows she’s planted the fucking seed, now, in his brain, and she bloody well keeps giving him _looks_ about it, and –

‘ _Fine_ ,’ he almost groans, throws his hands up in surrender. ‘You. You’re the threat in that scenario.’

She giggles, then smiles, delighted _._ ‘Good answer. Why?’

For something to do, he pulls at the fabric of his jeans a bit. ‘I’ve known Ron longer.’

She hums, nods. ‘That’s a good place to start, you’re right, but there’s more.’

Harry snaps, tone slightly exasperated. ‘I don’t know, he could have killed me any time during the last seven years.’ He doesn’t particularly _like_ this conversation. ‘Don’t think that he will, now,’ he adds, sarcastic. ‘Do you?’

And, ‘No,’ she laughs, but pushes. ‘Your point’s irrelevant, though. _We_ ’ve been alone often enough, over the past few months; I could have killed you any time, too.’

In the dark, Harry finds her gaze. He knows what she wants him to say, what she’s pushing for. It doesn’t mean that he _wants_ to say it. For a moment, he focuses his look on the back of the car in front of them. ‘Your past,’ he concedes. ‘You were associated with Death Eaters. He never was.’

A beat passes; she says nothing. The warming charm that they’ve cast around themselves is starting to build fog on the windows of the car. Harry reaches to wipe it off with his palm. ‘Good,’ she finally smiles. ‘Taught you well.’

A couple of days later, Robards gets hit by a pretty nasty curse while out shopping with his family in Diagon Alley. It’s a coordinated attack, plain and simple - whatever’s left of Voldemort’s followers claim responsibility for it through a communiqué to the _Daily Prophet_ a couple hours later. The caster of the curse itself is a kid, barely fourteen years old, probably imperiused. The next day, the headlines read _Are We Truly Safe?_ and even if Harry tries not to think about it too much, he finds himself purposefully kissing Mia long enough, a couple nights later, that she forgets about going to the restaurant and lets him order in. At Grimmauld, the young Aurors amongst them check and re-check the wards on the house three times a day and Hermione writes that even McGonagall has told people to keep an eye out. Their last training classes with Robards get pushed back to the start of December until he gets out of hospital (thank God, he and his family are safe, in the end) and in the meantime, they all have circular conversations that ask: _will this ever end?_

Harry spends a lot of time with Mia during those days. She’s studying for exams and preparing to go home for Christmas, jokingly argues that his presence is _excellent_ stress relief. He tends to think the same is true for her. Whatever they have works even better, then, because she seems to be on a sleeping schedule that rivals his – they sometimes arrange these odd dates for sex at three o’clock in the morning and in the end, while it means that Harry does go jogging a bit less, that winter, the rain now turns into sleet and burns at his cheeks whenever he does, so he can’t imagine himself complaining.

‘You alright?’ she asks him, once. It’s the night before Robards gets back to work.

Harry nods, the low glow of her bedside lamp casting shadows over her curves, skin warm against his. ‘Yeah,’ he mutters.

Their last class gets pushed back again the moment the boss is back, though, because the Aurors’ 24/7 Christmas schedule turns into a fucking shit show. Harry’s told this happens every year but _still,_ he can hardly believe it. That week, people in the department – people he _respects_ – seem to go completely mental over their bloody time off, in just a short, few hours. There are those who want Christmas off, those who want New Year’s off, those who absolutely have to go to their cousin’s mate’s wedding on the 29th (what are people who get married in winter thinking, for the love of Merlin?) … In the end, Harry thinks that honestly, Ron and he come out pretty lucky. Ron’s working the 24th but only in the morning and gets the 25th off through random allocation. This means that he can spend both the evening of the 24th _and_ the 25th at The Burrow, keeping his mother (and, secretly, he) if not _happy,_ at least _content_. With that part of the issue sorted, Harry, like most people, decides to just walk up to Robards’ office the moment he gets back from medical leave.

‘Oh, for the love of - you _too_?’ Robards asks with an exasperated sigh, shutting the door behind Harry with a wave of his wand. ‘It’s the tenth time I have to change the schedule, Potter, this better be good.’

‘Er,’ Harry starts. He looks down at his feet, then back at Robards. ‘I was just going to say I can work through Christmas and New Year’s, if it’s needed.’

Robards wordlessly gapes, for a moment. ‘Oh -’ Then, he frowns. ‘Are you sure? You haven’t taken time off since you started.’

A shrug. What’s great about Robards is that he doesn’t _care._ Not really. ‘Yeah, I’ll take some in January,’ Harry claims, which he supposes even Robards knows is an outrageous lie. ‘I mean,’ he adds. ‘Not like I have a family, you know?’

Robards gives him a _look_ like, _fair point,_ and leaves it at that _._ This is a relief because _now,_ with the new rota that comes out a few minutes later, Harry can go talk to Ron and say, ‘Yeah, I’m working the entire time. Yeah, I know, it’s shite, isn’t it?’ thus avoiding his best mate’s dreaded invitation to The Burrow.

It’s not that Harry doesn’t want to go, _per se._ He assumes he’ll pop by at some point if he has a free afternoon, like he’s more or less been doing since September, often when Teddy and Andromeda are over. While he loves Ron’s family, of course, he’s kind of been avoiding being left alone with Molly and Arthur since the end of the summer. Additionally, Christmas dinner will likely just be a meal of tiptoeing around everyone and silently mourning Fred while desperately missing Ginny despite the fact that she’ll be _right there -_ within arm’s reach – yet, so fucking far away. Hermione, he gathers, is spending it with her parents in the Muggle world so, considering that all the Burrow’s got to offer is a Christmas of heartbreak and grief, Harry decides that he’d rather be working.

Giulia, of course, disagrees with his analysis. ‘Ah, you too?’ she asks when she notices his name now up for the 23rd, 24th, 25th, 26th and so on. She’s working Christmas week but managed to trade her days off in late December with a couple of people to be able to attend her flatmate’s wedding. ‘I imagine they’ll keep us partnered up, then,’ she sighs. ‘D’you know what, Harry? This is just fucking outrageous. Why is it always the people who have families and kids who end up having a good Christmas and all I always get, every year, is this fucking shite?’

In the moment, he doesn’t really dare tell her he volunteered for this, because then she would certainly ask why, and it would become a _thing._ (Later, well, he wishes… a lot of things.) Ultimately, the whole scheduling predicament gets (somewhat) resolved over the first week of December, which brings the new Aurors’ last lesson with Robards to Monday, the 7th.

That day, Harry makes sure to sit at the back of the class. Ron barely mutters a ‘Hello,’ when he sits next to him and with that, Harry becomes pretty sure that Hermione’s had _him_ look over the curriculum, too.

Their last module spreads over a full day: a theory lecture in the morning, followed by a four-hour practice slot at the spell-casting range in the afternoon. Over the past few weeks, Harry’s learnt that there are spells that they have to learn to resist ( _Imperio)_ , spells that they are simply never authorised to cast, like _Crucio,_ and spells that they just can’t practise on each other without running the risk of inflicting serious, bodily harm. _This_ is obviously one of those.

Sometimes, it’s silly stuff: setting fire to mountains of crap, controlling and increasing the power of the flames at will. Sometimes, it’s inflicting pretty unfortunate injuries to rats. Once, Parvati boldly asks why they don’t just fire them at dummies and Robards just glares at her and snaps back: ‘You really think that would teach you anything?’

Harry almost counters him on principle, but then Ron sends his best mate a warning look like the fate of lab rats isn’t one particularly worth getting fired over. Perhaps, it is a sign that he’s grown into an adult, now, that Harry knows to let that one slide.

For their last lecture, Robards writes two words with his wand, in capital letters, onto the blackboard, and Harry stares straight ahead, motionless, because he can tell the man’s gaze is on him. What honestly feels strange, that morning, above all else, is that there even _is_ a theory to the spell, something to be learnt. ‘It’s a bit like a Patronus charm,’ Robards explains and the comparison makes Harry feel _sick_. ‘Except, instead of hope and happy memories, you summon fury, or hate. All the anger you can come up with is welcome, here, ladies and gents.’

They go through the strict conditions upon which the spell can be cast:

  * an immediate risk to your life or the life of others
  * other methods of restraining the individual have been materially attempted, to no avail
  * fleeing or retreating through Disapparition or any other means is either unsafe, or not applicable



Harry kind of listens but also kind of doesn’t, like the whole lesson happens behind one, big cloud of smoke.

At the range that afternoon, he can’t take his eyes off the rat. Usually, they use two sets of targets: an enlarged rat to practice the spell itself, first, then a bunch of tiny ones that magically appear out of thin air, running around in an enclosure, to practice their aim. So, _this is it,_ Harry thinks, staring as his rat. It stands there, looks back at him, bound to a table, about eighty feet away. There’s something in its gaze that Harry can’t quite shake off, like it already knows what’s coming to him. He loosely wonders if the rat is actually a thing transfigured into an animal or if the little guy had little rat parents, once upon a time, siblings or – God forbid – rat children. _You’re being ridiculous, get a fucking grip._

In fairness to her, Opal is the bravest of them all. She’s the first to actually say the words. In the silence, there’s almost an apologetic tone to her spell, though, and her wand produces absolutely nothing.

‘ _All right!_ ’ Robards bellows out from behind them, walking up and down the range. ‘Now, the lady’s shown us all where it’s at, will you lot stop _fucking about_ and get on with it? We don’t have a whole month, here!’

This does seem to shake most of the trainees around Harry into action. It’s easier that way, to be honest, because at least, it’s a hubbub of voices shouting _stuff_ around him, rather than just one, very distinct spell repeated over and over again. In his head, he cuts the _noise_ out, focuses on his rat. When, later, Robards goes around the room, correcting posture and shouting instructions at people over the tumult, Harry notices that he purposefully avoids his booth, going from the person to his right to the person to his left. Supposes that since he’s probably the only one who hasn’t uttered a word since they came in ( _has Ron?_ he wonders), there’s not much to be said.

The first to actually produce something of substance is Seamus. His booth is right next to Harry’s and suddenly, to his left, there’s a flash of green light and a loud, ‘Fecking hell!’ Harry figures that Seamus must have dropped his wand in surprise because his spell adopts an odd upwards curve and hits the ceiling. ‘Oh, fantastic, Finnegan! Great one!’ Robards’ voice echoes somewhere far in the fog that seems to surround Harry’s brain but all that he knows, _right now_ , is that he needs to get out of there.

Shoves his wand into his back pocket and practically runs out the door. It’s only then, safe, between the white walls of the empty corridor outside the range that Harry realises that his hands are shaking. That his legs are shaking, knees threatening to give out, breaths coming out staggered and ragged, heart racing and pumping adrenaline through his veins, and _fuck,_ he hasn’t had one of _those_ in a while. Suddenly, he closes his eyes and all he can see is Tom. Not Voldemort, just Tom. Handsome and sixteen, and the moss of the forest underneath his fingertips, and –

_Breathe,_ a voice whispers, in his head. It sounds like wind in the trees and last summer. _Breathe. In and out, and in, and out. Slow, Harry, breathe._

It’s a good ten minutes before the panic truly recedes. By then, Harry realises that Ron’s also come out of the room, sat next to him and said nothing. He sets his jaw, feels his body tense next to his. ‘I can’t get it out either,’ Ron says.

‘No, you _can_ ,’ Harry quickly interrupts, his voice much steadier than he feels. He knows that, just _does._ Is actually more confident in Ron’s ability than in anyone else’s, knows that his best mate is a much better wizard than he’s ever given himself credit for. There’s no reason why he couldn’t get it out, to tell truth. It’s a spell, just a spell, and the both of them have had enough anger pent up in them for years, now, to tear down fucking walls.

‘Maybe physically, yeah,’ Ron sighs. ‘But –’

‘That’s all it is, though,’ Harry speaks, then. Deep down, the words strangely ground him. ‘It’s physical. Your heart beats, then it stops.’ And so, it is physics – only physics – that he has nightmares about, isn’t it? Could have been as simple as formulas that calculate the speed at which the Earth rotates. ‘They’re right, though,’ he adds. Tries to think rationally, like Hermione. Ron usually lets himself get convinced by Hermione. ‘Being able to get it out, out there, it could save loads of people.’

‘Harry -’

‘I’m fine,’ he says. Oddly, he is. ‘And, I do think that. Really.’ Because, truth be told, while he did cast _Expelliarmus_ at Voldemort back in May, Harry also knows that he would have strangled the man with his bare hands if it’d been needed to save his best mate. Or, for that matter, save anybody else.

When the both of them re-enter, the room immediately goes quiet. Everyone’s stares are on Harry as he walks back up to his booth. Looks at the rat in front of him and mutters: ‘I’m sorry.’

Shuts his eyes. Opens them. In his head, Tom Riddle murders the mother who called him brave.

‘Avada Kedavra,’ he just says.

A flash of green light, the rat falls dead. The target table turns and three more rats appear, running around it. Harry’s aim has always been on point so really, once he’s mastered the spell, that part’s not really a challenge. ‘Avada Kedavra,’ he repeats and this time, his father falls, wandless, at the bottom of the stairs. It’s seconds before the rats all lie dead.

(Later, he finds out that he’s the first trainee in history to ever master the spell on first try, to ever kill all four rats in under thirty seconds with a methodology and focus that frankly rivals that of Tom Riddle himself. He’s not sure what to think about _that_.)

In the moment, though, like fifth year, Hogwarts and Patronus charms, once he’s done, he turns around and does as Robards asks. Works the room, walks over to other people’s booths and teaches them how to cast it, too.

That evening, most of them file out of the changing rooms quickly. They’re exhausted, Ron’s got to help George close up the shop but somehow, Harry can’t imagine going home. He heads back to his desk, pours over the admin of the Sussex case until well after it gets dark.

It’s eight, maybe nine when Giulia stands next to him in the candlelight. ‘I spoke with Kingsley,’ she states. ‘Who spoke with Robards.’ A pause. ‘Who said good things,’ she adds. ‘He was very impressed.’ She sits at the edge of the desk. ‘Do you want to talk about it?’

_This_ isn’t a Giulia question, Harry thinks. It’s a Hermione question. Maybe a Ron one, depending on the circumstances. He doesn’t respond and, ‘You know why they tried to take down Robards?’ he asks, instead. Giulia crosses his gaze, raises an indulging eyebrow. ‘He’s the boss, the lead. And if the lead’s scared, or shows any sign of weakness, stumbles a bit, then everyone behind him also gets scared,’ he says. ‘That’s why Robards came back so quick, too, why he’s so business-as-usual. He can’t be fold. If he does, everyone else does.’ 

For a moment, Giulia just stares, in the semi-darkness of the candlelight, and the two of them are silent. _I used to be that (the boss, the lead, the figurehead – the one who couldn’t be scared),_ he doesn’t tell her, but from the way her look narrows onto his, he thinks that she gets it, anyway. Gets that while he doesn’t talk, while he appears to be a bit insane, or unstable, or dishonest in the press, he also looks less dangerous to the other side, less of a prey. It keeps him safe, keeps his loved ones safe. When you’re the person everyone wants to take down, life gets easier and the pressure to stand up, be there, and _never_ fold also almost disappears. The interview will put him back in the spotlight and Harry’s about to willingly (knowingly) shoulder all that weight back on, proudly repaint the target on his back in bright, bold colours. It’s the _right_ thing to do, _sure,_ but it’s a bloody heavy cross to bear.

Giulia sighs, heavy and knowing; he blinks. _I wish you were here,_ he remembers thinking and he’s eighteen years old, the saviour of the wizarding world, and all he wishes he could have is a hug from his mum.

Giulia offers him an alternative. ‘I know you don’t usually drink but do you want to go to a pub and get _really_ pissed?’ she asks.

He sort of sighs and sort of laughs at the same time. ‘Yeah,’ he says. ‘Actually, yeah.’

It’s not one of his best decisions, probably, and he pays for it with a hangover the next day, but most likely, it’s the last time he can actually let himself be the irresponsible kid who makes it.

That night, he tells her stuff that he’s never told anyone before and, ‘Narcissa’s wrong,’ he slurs before she Apparates him home. ‘I wasn’t suicidal, that night in the forest. I was fucking terrified. But when you’re me, you can’t tell people you’re terrified.’

The interview finally happens on the second Monday of December, that year. After a quick conversation with Kingsley, they decide to have it at Grimmauld Place. The Ministry is too much a gossip mill and Harry prefers to keep his own flat – and its location – private. By then, a thick, freezing fog seems to have taken over London; he has Kreacher light all of the fires in the house in an attempt to keep the damp out.

Hermione was right: Laura, the journalist, shows up with her photographer. Harry heads downstairs to open the door for them, curses loudly when he stubs his toe on a bucket of paint on the way, offers them the tea and biscuits that Kreacher’s prepared for the occasion. The both of them are warm, polite as they settle in; Harry notices the way Laura looks at the house as they walk into the study, the magic in the air, like she’s taking everything in. Twenty years after she probably started school, there still seems to be a part of her that thinks all of this might not be real. Harry isn’t Muggleborn but he knows what that looks like, sometimes feels the exact same.

For the sake of completeness, it seems that he should also present her version of events. So, once it comes out, this is what the article reads:

_Meeting Harry Potter, these days, is already an adventure in and of itself. Since the end of the Second Wizarding War in the United Kingdom, on May 2nd, 1998, the eighteen-year-old has been notoriously discreet. To our knowledge, he has turned down all other press interview requests over the past few months – both domestic and international - and his constant presence in the headlines overseas has mostly been due to the work of third parties (for our recap on the Malfoy controversy, see page 10) rather than his own. For this interview, we made our inquiry in July and only received a response in November. When I ask Mr. Potter about this, he smiles and concedes, “It’s been a weird few months.”_

_After going through an extensive security clearance process with the British Ministry of Magic (see also, our interview of Minister Kingsley Shacklebolt at page 30), we meet Mr. Potter at his house on Grimmauld Place, in the No-Maj borough of Islington, London. The address, scribbled on a piece of paper in Mr. Potter’s handwriting, is shown to us by the Minister of Magic himself, before being burned. The day before we are allowed in, we meet some of our British colleagues out on Mr. Potter’s doorstep._

_“It’s a Fidelius charm,” Miss Eleanor Fforde explains; she writes for the British magazine_ Witch Weekly. _“Means that unless you’ve been expressly told the location, you can stand out here all you want, you won’t ever be able to see the house,” she adds. “We think Potter’s Secret Keeper, possibly [Ron] Weasley and [Hermione] Granger, too. They’re all definitely in there, that we know, along with the other Hogwarts kids that Potter’s welcomed in. We get glimpses, sometimes – they’ll Apparate from the top step or something. A few months ago, Potter and his ex sort of tumbled out of there, after a party. Now, that was exciting. Since then, though, nothing.”_

_When we later ask him about this, Mr. Potter does not hide his smirk. “Well, she’s not wrong,” he tells us, and laughs. I mention the other rumors we’ve also heard according to which he, himself, does not live at the house but in another secret, undisclosed location in No-Maj London. He smiles. “I’m not going to tell you where I live. Believe it or not, regardless of what Mrs. Malfoy seems to think, I’ve not gone completely mad, yet.” For what it is worth, per our own impression, he actually seems anything but. “That being said, yeah, they’ve tried to tail me a couple of times. Always manage to lose them, though. Auror training and all. It’s a bit of game, really.” I note that he seems rather relaxed for someone who still has a twenty-million-Dragots price on his head. He quickly ironizes: “Merlin, it’s gone up, hasn’t it?”_

_Over the afternoon that we spend with him, “Harry,” as he insists we call him, appears much older and more grounded than his years would suggest. He takes us through the house and into a study, telling us a bit about the renovation works we notice around him. “I inherited the place from Sirius. His family was quite keen on the whole pureblood décor.” He is right: above the top shelf of the bookcases that sit behind him, we notice the family’s motto still carved into the wall. “It translates as ‘always pure,’” Harry explains. “We’ve been trying to clean the place up a bit, make it more breathable, but it’s a bit of an ongoing project at the moment. Obviously,” he laughs, pointing at the mess around the place._

_By “Sirius,” Harry means Sirius Black, his late godfather. Once accused of having betrayed Mr. Potter’s parents, Mr. Black passed away when his godson was only fifteen, after two years spent on the run, following a prison breakout. At the end of the war, Harry insisted that he be posthumously cleared of all charges. “It wasn’t him,” he tells us. “It was another one of my dad’s friends, Peter Pettigrew. He even helped Voldemort* return.” By then, Mr. Potter was fourteen. He was held captive, tortured and almost killed by He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named before fighting his way out. When he told the world about it, no one believed him. “Though, to tell you truth,” he quickly adds. “I’m not sure it really matters who betrayed them, in the end. Sirius’s dead, Peter’s dead, Riddle’s dead, and it hasn’t brought them back. Revenge’s never really been what I was after.”_

_Through our later investigations, we also find out that our colleague from_ Witch Weekly _was correct. Since last September, Mr. Potter has indeed opened the house he owns up to a number of his former Hogwarts classmates, free of charge. Most of them were members of a once illegal organization called “Dumbledore’s Army,” started by Harry in his Sophomore year and named after the well-known, but now slightly controversial, former Headmaster of the school, Albus Dumbledore. The students who belonged to this organization have all since been recognized by the British Ministry for their invaluable role in defeating You-Know-Who during the 1998 Battle of Hogwarts (for a note on the organization and our editorial on the significant role played by child and teenage soldiers during the UK’s Second Wizarding War, see page 2)._

_Together, Harry explains that they have now not only begun renovating his house as side-hustle, but also formed C.A.S.H.C.O.W, a charitable organization aimed at providing support to children affected by the aftermath of the war and by You-Know-Who’s authoritarian regime. Together, they’ve raised funds for a variety of projects, including housing and care of orphaned children, and the financing of remedial classes for No-Maj students who were not able to attend school, last year. Harry’s own eight-month-old godson, Edward Lupin, lost both his parents in the final Battle last May. We understand that Mr. Potter regularly gives large amounts of his significant family inheritance (currently estimated over a hundred million Dragots) to the charity. While he refuses to confirm a specific figure, a source within the Ministry has assured us that he has contributed for over half of the charity’s total expenses for the year of 1998._

Overall, when Harry reads the final product of the four-hour interview, he thinks it’s quite fair. Laura is careful, she takes her notes by hand (bit peculiar, but why not?) and uses a Muggle tape recorder as a back-up. ‘There are two tapes,’ she explains, early on. ‘One for me, one for you. So, we’re all on the same page.’

At the bottom of the first page of the article, a note even reads: * _We note that over the course of our interview, Mr. Potter refers to He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named alternatively as “Riddle,” or “Tom Riddle,” (his birthname) or simply as “Voldemort.” While we understand that this might hurt some of our readership’s sensibilities, we have decided not to alter Mr. Potter’s words in our article. Using these names is a conscious decision on Mr. Potter’s part, and a reflection of his beliefs._

It’s a lot more than the _The Prophet’_ s ever done with any of his past declarations and generally, Laura seems, like Hermione had anticipated, to be willing to do the work. Harry doesn’t particularly _like_ a lot of the questions that she asks, but maybe that’s also part of it.

Her photographer takes a number of pictures, throughout the afternoon. Harry’s asked to pose for some of them, sometimes looking straight into the camera and sometimes not. he complies but does momentarily wonder if he maybe should have dressed a little better than jeans and a non-descript, grey t-shirt. Can already anticipate the _Prophet_ writing a detailed analysis entitled: _Why Does Potter Dress Like a Muggle?_

When she talks, Laura’s accent has something of a warm, slow drawl to it, relaxed and calming. She grills him about his childhood in the ‘No-Maj’ world, what he thinks it brought him. ‘It might have shielded me a bit,’ he admits. ‘But, overall, it wasn’t great. Not because they were Muggles, I mean, I think it was just the particular circumstances they were in. Petunia – my aunt – she had to grieve my mother three times. First when she lost her to our world, then when she lost her to my father, and lastly when she actually died. As a result, she hated magic. It builds up a lot of … resentment.’

They also talk about Dumbledore (‘I’m not angry,’ Harry answers. ‘I’m glad I believed in him. But, yeah, he _was_ complicated’), the Horcruxes, Ron and Hermione.

‘You three seem really close,’ Laura observes.

‘They’re the only reason I’m still alive,’ he responds.

Eventually, they do get to the topic of Narcissa Malfoy. Harry’s honest about it. Admits that he did threaten her, that she used his godson to try and blackmail him and that he overreacted. ‘I understand you didn’t want to talk to the press about what happened in the forest?’ Laura asks. He nods. ‘So, what _did_ happen in the forest?’

_As an answer, Mr. Potter points us to the British Ministry of Magic’s most recent press release on the topic. I ask if he’d be willing to tell us more. “Everything that’s in there is the truth, there’s not much else to be said,” he argues. “Even Narcissa’s acknowledged that I gave myself up, walked down there unarmed. It was the only way to ensure that Riddle could be killed, that the others would stand a chance to win the war. Then, she says I was running away. And, then, in the next breath, she says I was suicidal. She can’t even make up her mind, it seems.” I try to ask Harry about what it felt like, going down there, thinking that he was going to die, but he immediately closes off. “All the facts are in the press release,” he says. When I question him about the reason why he doesn’t want to elaborate, he laughs and asks: “I don’t know. Would you want to?”_

(The real answer to that question forever stays with Giulia, he thinks. The only other person who ever really knows is Ginny - but that’s later. She _knows_ because she does, because she _understands,_ and he never even needs to tell her with words.)

At one point, Laura asks Harry a question, though, which he does find interesting. ‘Allegedly,’ she starts, glancing down at her notes. ‘You were seen casting the Cruciatus Curse on a Death Eater by the name of Alecto Carrow, ahead of the Battle of Hogwarts. Miss Granger and Mr Weasley have also confirmed that a goblin was _imperio-_ ed during your Gringotts break-in and have both refused to identify the person who cast the curse in their depositions, simply stating that it wasn’t them. Do you have a comment to make?’

‘I can confirm that it wasn’t them.’

‘Are you confirming it was you?’

‘ _No_ ,’ he laughs. _Again,_ he thinks, _I’ve not gone completely mad._ ‘I’m simply confirming that it wasn’t them.’

Laura smiles. ‘There were only three wizards at the scene.’

‘Well, then, like I said: “no comment.”’

She huffs out a bit of a laugh, too, then asks: ‘Okay, regardless, what do you think of Mrs Malfoy’s arguments, then? That the Ministry should have investigated and possibly charged you for any wrongdoings. Same way that she and her family were? She argues that because you refused to cooperate with the commission and did not sign your immunity agreement, there is no reason for you to be given special treatment.’

_At that, Mr. Potter responds: “I don’t know, honestly. Maybe, she does have a point. I’m not the Ministry, though. It’s not my job to tell who’s guilty and who’s not. I’ll testify at her trial, say that her and her son, at different points last year, did save my life. That’s the truth. They also allowed Narcissa’s sister, Bellatrix, to torture my best friend under their own roof. That’s all I can do, really, at this point, tell the truth. I regret not doing it earlier, giving her ammunition, lying about what happened in the forest and all that. But last spring, everyone wanted answers and all we needed - me, Ron and Hermione - was quiet, really.” I ask him if he feels guilty. “About any of the things you’ve listed?” he smiles. “No, not really.” About other things, then? Here, he sighs. “Yeah. I feel guilty for every single person who died before I went and gave myself up, last year. That’s not something I think will ever really go away, or something I can change.”_

She asks him what he thinks of the Death Eater trials that are starting in January. ‘As a concept?’ he asks. ‘I don’t know. Not a fan of it considering how it turned into witch hunt, last time around. But at the same time, you do have to get people to own up to the things they’ve done, don’t you? Honestly, I stand with Kingsley on this. I do think that with the popular juries, the accused having a right to their lawyers - they’re really doing their best to make sure it’s as fair as it can be. Azkaban also isn’t what it used to be.’

_Before leaving, we ask Mr. Potter one last question – about his love life. We understand that his recent break-up with former classmate, Miss Ginevra Weasley (Ronald’s younger sister), was largely publicized in the British, tabloid press. At first, Mr. Potter seems quite reluctant to talk about it. Then, I must admit that despite the rumors we’d heard about his notoriously quick temper, it is the first time that day, that I see him genuinely angry. “Look, they can write whatever they want about me,” he tells me. “I’m a public figure, apparently that’s fair game; I’m used to it. But the stuff they wrote about her, especially_ Witch Weekly, _it’s just appalling. Ginny and I were together, then we broke up – well, she broke up with me; everyone knows that – but the fact that it was accidentally caught on camera does not give anyone the right to vilify her the way they have. Some of the things that they’ve written about her, how she was just after me for money or fame, making lists of all the boys she’s dated before, it couldn’t be further from the truth. It’s despicable and insulting, and outrageous.”_

_I ask why he thinks such comments have been made. “Well, because she’s a girl,” he tells me. “They would never write that kind of stuff about me. You know, Hermione once told me: ‘When a girl dates lots of boys, she’s a slut. When a boy dates lots of girls, he’s “great fun” or “one of the lads.”’ That’s true, and it really shouldn’t be._ _And, don’t get me wrong, I wasn’t happy we broke up. I love her.”_ When he reads that line in the article, Harry actually has to put the magazine down and go play the tape Laura gave him again, cringing at the fact that _yes, right,_ he _did_ use present tense, there. _“But she had her reasons. If I can respect that, so should_ Witch Weekly _.”_

_I ask Harry if he’s been seeing anyone else, recently. He seems to consider his answer. “Yes,” he finally concedes. “She’s a [No-Maj] so I suppose that at least, thanks to the Statute of Secrecy, no one can go and stalk her, can they?”_

After the interview, he asks when they will go to print. It’s scheduled for the 20th of December, just before Christmas, they say, and promise to send him a couple of courtesy copies. Because of the way mail’s transferred across continents, Harry can expect everyone in England to be able to get a copy by the 21st. He’s off work that day and the next, he remembers, so at least, there is that.

Before then, the one thing he does is write to Ginny. The whole quote about dating someone else kind of escaped him, so did all that stuff about bloody _Witch Weekly_. He’s trying to prevent another disaster from happening.

Harry writes about fifty drafts. First, he can’t settle on a greeting: Hi? Hey? Dear? Then, it’s: Gin, or Ginny – _not_ Ginevra – maybe no name at all? There are a handful of letters in which he admits that _yes,_ he does love her, still – but he quickly burns those. Sometimes, he finds he almost wants to tell her that things with Mia aren’t serious, that she’d just have to lift a finger and he’d come back in an instant. Then, it occurs to him that Ginny might not think very highly of _that_ , either. He gets a bit bitter towards the end, asks why she didn’t answer any of his letters, back in September. The last draft he tosses out randomly asks if the Quidditch season is going well.

In the end, he settles on:

_Hi Gin,_

_I hope you’re doing well._

_I just wanted to let you know that I did an interview with an American magazine (not much, just a few questions they had about the war and all). ~~They asked about us~~ _(he strikes that hard and hopes she won’t be able to read). _They asked and I told them I was seeing someone new. She’s a Muggle_ (he considers telling her it’s Mia, the neighbour she encouraged him to befriend, but quickly decides against it). _I understand if you don’t want to write back but I expect it’ll be in the article so I just thought it’d be best if you learnt it from me first. It should be out by the 21 st. _

_Anyway, again, hope all is well._

_Yours,_

_Harry._

He spends the next fifteen minutes obsessing over his use of the word ‘Yours,’ (he’s not _hers,_ technically, not anymore, although in his head he kind of still is -) but _Merlin, fuck this,_ he finally sighs, throws in the towel and Floos over to Grimmauld Place. He ties the letter around Pig’s paw and watches him fly away, already regretting every word.

Harry finds the bird on his windowsill when he gets home from work the next day. Her response is not even a letter; it’s just a note (he supposes _she_ didn’t agonise over this as much as he did, did she?). He unties it with fumbling fingers.

_Cool, thanks for letting me know._

_Gin._

He has no fucking response to _that._

On the morning of the 21st, a gorgeous, Northern Hawk owl taps at his window, gives him a little bit of a fright, at eight o’clock in the morning. Mia’s gone home for the holidays so he expects to be spending the next two days in his pyjamas, watching something stupid like East Enders on his brand-new TV, and generally avoiding the rest of the world. Granted, he’s changed, grown and learnt since last summer, but not _that_ much.

To complement the interview, Harry sees that the magazine’s decided to run an entire special edition dedicated to the British Wizarding War. Flicking through the pages, he sees a number of investigative pieces on Voldemort’s reign, his followers, collaborators and facilitators. A number of their staff also seem to have talked to a few people on Harry’s side (including Neville as the spokesperson for C.A.S.H.C.O.W), Kingsley, Narcissa Malfoy (nothing new there, Harry sees that she’s still playing the same tune) and a number of other ministry officials.

His own face is obviously on the front page ( _ugh,_ he thinks) and it feels a bit weird: the way he recognises himself, there, but also doesn’t. The picture is a black-and-white portrait. In it, he’s looking straight into the camera, a somewhat neutral but strangely determined expression on his face. It moves, of course, but only, very barely. Just a breath, a few seconds; his gaze subtly goes to his left, then refocuses. The angle accentuates his jaw line, the three days’ worth of stubble at his cheeks. He looks like himself, but also not. Like a kid, but also not.

The other photos are more like the ones he’s used to. They’re coloured - bit of a change from _The Prophet –_ but it’s generally him, at different points of the afternoon in Grimmauld Place. On the couch, by the bookshelf. In one of them, he’s absentmindedly petting Hermione’s cat. In another, he’s talking animatedly about something (he remembers this was the point when they asked him about why he felt so strongly about C.A.S.H.C.O.W.), the soles of his trainers balanced at the edge of the coffee table.

_“Please, Call Me ‘Harry,’”_ the title reads.

He rolls his eyes at _that_ , a tad, but he does suppose that it must be how these things sell.

When it comes out, Ron thinks it’s ‘Brilliant!’ and, a bit shyly, thanks him for giving he and Hermione so much credit. Harry didn’t even think that he had – again, he just told the truth, didn’t he? His best mate also says: ‘Good one, making them think you’re dating a Muggle,’ which Harry, all things considered, decides not to correct.

Hermione’s not so easily charmed. She sends him another five-foot detailed critique of his every word, highlighting strengths and weaknesses (‘You do come off a bit arrogant there, Harry’). Overall, though, she seems to conclude the whole thing is well-written, truthful, and generally what she was hoping it to be. _I think it was good for you to do this, Harry,_ she writes. _It sets the record straight before the trials and makes you sound a bit more… human. Someone people can get behind._ He thinks of that night when he got drunk with Giulia when he reads that, then tries _not_ to think about it. _I also liked what you said about_ Witch Weekly. _They’re probably going to come at you for being a feminist, now._ Is that what he is? _Oh, and objectively, you do look very handsome in that front-page picture, too._

He bursts out a laugh at _that_ , mostly because of her use of the word ‘objectively,’ like there’s a metre to fill or boxes to tick. He certainly wouldn’t call himself _‘_ handsome’ by any means but he does have to acknowledge the fact that this particular high-quality, professional photo of him is more flattering than the usual shots the paps manage to take here and there.

Hermione, in her letter, has the courtesy not to mention the ‘Muggle girl’ situation. For that, Harry’s grateful.

Kingsley’s generally satisfied, too. He’s not quite over the moon about the part where Harry practically dares the Ministry to charge him with multiple counts of Unforgivable curses (‘We are obviously _not_ going to do that, Harry,’) but overall, the interview seems to have driven both the Ministry’s and Harry’s approval ratings up by ten points. When it’s just the both of them in the room, Kingsley also says Remus would have been proud and Harry decides not to question it, to just take it as it comes and simply believe it.

Neville thanks him profusely for drawing so much attention to C.A.S.H.C.O.W., which occupies nearly a page of the article. Harry raves about the good work that they’re doing, encourages people to donate. It’s actually the part of the whole operation that he’s happiest about, and something that he doesn’t really think he needs to be thanked for.

When he makes it back into work on the 23rd, Giulia, himself, Ron and his partner, Thaddeus, get the Ministry cars out at the crack of dawn on a report of a couple of Dementors, allegedly spotted loose in an abandoned factory on the outskirts of Birmingham. Thaddeus grumbles all the way down to the Ministry car park about the report being bogus and Ron keeps repeating that he ‘fucking hate[s] those bloody Dementors, anyway.’ Harry thinks it’s _way_ too early to express (or even have) any opinion on the matter and Giulia, it seems, can hardly keep her giggles to herself. 

She sits in the passenger seat of the car and, with her wand lit up, reads the _entire_ interview _out loud_ back to him. Harry believes that he might one day murder her in her sleep, but also has to admit that part of him can’t stop laughing at her sarcastic commentary. ‘“ _Revenge’s never really been what I was after.”_ Saint-bloody-Harry, aren’t you? I mean, do you listen to yourself sometimes?’

‘It’s true!’ Harry counters and gives her a half-hearted eye-roll.

She laughs. ‘You know what? The worst part is: it probably _is_ ,’ she mocks. ‘Which is why you’re the hero of the wizarding world and I’m, like, your nasty Aunt Peggy.’

He snorts. ‘Petunia,’ he corrects. ‘Her name’s _Petunia_.’

‘Same thing,’ she chuckles. ‘Merlin, you should send a copy of that magazine to them, you know? Shove it right up in their face.’

They laugh all the way through the twenty-minute trip up to Manchester but when they land just outside the factory, she puts her hand on his left arm before he goes to open the door. ‘I’m taking the piss and all but you know it’s a good thing, right? What you did?’ she asks, genuine, like she wants to _know_ , ensure that someone ( _anyone_ ) has actually _told_ him. She’s his trainer, his mentor, one of the best Auror he’s ever met and it’s strange, how much this suddenly means to him, coming from her. She’s clearly never had any issues calling him out on his shit in the past so now, he _knows_ she’s telling the truth. ‘This is good stuff,’ she adds. ‘Stepping up. Telling people the truth. Being _you._ Promoting the charity and all. It’s things to be proud of. Not sirens and shite, yeah?’ she laughs.

He nods, once. They’re going in to capture Dementors and _Merlin_ , he thinks _that_ (right there) might actually be Patronus-worthy. He remembers wanting to tell Hermione he was shite at everything, after Ginny left, but perhaps, he isn’t. He just needed time to figure it out.

‘Thanks,’ he tells her. She smiles, shows a bit of teeth and little lines at the corner of her eyes.

(In the grand scheme of things, though, very little of that matters, that day. Not the press, not the trials, not the sarcastic commentary, or even the Dementors. That is because there are no Dementors.

Harry doesn’t know that yet, not at this _precise_ moment, but they’re walking into an ambush, aren’t they? And, because Giulia dies, that day, it’s the last smile she ever gives him.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm... sorry? Ugh, I promise I had my reasons and she's mine so if you're sad, multiply that by ten for how I feel. Plus side, Ginny comes back in next chapter. I promise, something good will come out of this :'(. I'm hoping to update mid-March-ish but I have an exam at the end of March so I can't make any hard promises. 


End file.
